Harvest
by Brighid45
Summary: The eighth story in the Treatment series. What happens when House faces some of his worst memories? AU to S6/S7 canon storyline. OC romance, humor and holiday angst. Please R&R, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**_(A/N: And so we begin another story in the Treatment series. Many thanks to everyone who has put me or my stories on their Alerts and Favorites lists, I'm humbly grateful. Thanks also to the writers of the OCBabes forum at Delphi for their support, encouragement and great one-liners. And last but not least, thanks to mmgage and MissBates for their insight, help and humor. If you haven't checked out their respective fics I encourage you to do so, you'll be in for some excellent reading. -B)_**

_The mellow Moon,__  
__the changing leaves,__  
__The earlier setting Sun,__  
__Proclaim at last, my merry boys,__  
__The harvesttime begun._ –'Song in Autumn', Charles G. Eastman

_September 23__rd_

_5 p.m._

"Boooooored."

Sandesh looked over at House, who was busy tying a knot in the base of a latex glove. The glove looked like it was about to explode, with digits the size of sausages. House finished the knot and tossed the glove onto the exam table to join the dozen already flocked together there. "Did I mention I was bored?" He extracted another glove from the box. "Nurses changed their locker coms again, and I think someone found out I've been using the chick flick DVDs as trivets for my Hot Pockets. No one has a sense of humor around here."

"I've noticed that myself," Sandesh said.

"You're one to talk." House blew up the glove, tied a knot in the base, and batted it at Sandesh. "You've rearranged things in my office twice now, and then to add insult to injury you took my balls hostage."

Sandesh blinked and caught the glove as it drifted to the floor. "I have a perfectly good set of balls already. You can ask my wife, she's got them locked up in our bedroom safe. And I haven't been in your office."

House tilted his head. "Is that what you tell Wirth when you steal coffee out of her personal stash?"

"Nah, I just leave her five bucks a week. It's a nice arrangement and our spouses need never know." Sandesh took a felt-tipped pen out of his pocket and began to draw a monster face on the glove. "Too bad we don't have a Pedes ward. Kids love these things because they have no taste."

"Ouch." House put a hand over his chest. "I'm so wounded." He grabbed his Coke and slugged down several large swallows, belched and glanced at his watch. "I know you've been messing around in my office."

"Why, because it's something you would do?" Sandesh shook his head. "Feel free to rummage through mine any time you like. While you're at it, see if you can unearth that case file from a month ago. Wirth's been bugging me for it but damn if I can find the stupid thing."

"First sabotage and now clerical duties. You gonna look up my skirt next?" House tossed the Coke can into the exam-table cover paper waste basket. "Perfect two-pointer, hah!"

Sandesh snorted. "Count yourself lucky, wanker. I've been far more bored than this. Work a weeknight here during a snowstorm and you'll find out what true hell is. Even knowing that, it still wouldn't drive me to mess with your stuff."

"You're just noble that way?" House sneered. "Come on, what's your real reason? It'll be our little secret." He gave an exaggerated wink. Sandesh gave him a knowing look.

"Nothing worth pawning."

House snickered as the radio crackled to life. "Tango-five to base."

Sandesh got up and walked over to answer. "Base here. Go ahead, Jack."

"Industrial accident involving a thirty-five year old female." The EMT sounded utterly unlike his usual jovial self. "She sustained moderate electrical burns on and in her right forearm, with partial amputation of the fifth finger, left hand. She coded after we got her in the rig but she's back with us. Pulse is fast and thready, respiration's shallow but we're giving her oxygen and she's doing better. Got her on IV."

"Is she conscious?" Sandesh asked.

"Yeah, coherent and in a lot of pain. We're about two minutes out." There was a pause. "If Doctor House is there, tell him it's Roz. He should know so we don't spring it on him."

"You just told him yourself." Sandesh glanced at House. He was already pale, his eyes losing focus as shock took hold. He sat down hard on the exam table. Glove balloons scattered everywhere, slowly settling to the floor.

[H] [H] [H]

Of course he isn't allowed to work on her; he watches as Singh and the nurses get Roz set up in the trauma bay with a speed and efficiency any big-hospital ER would be proud of. When one of the nurses starts to pull the curtain closed Singh intervenes.

"Not all the way," he says, and gives Greg a glance—swift, assessing, and somehow reassuring—before turning back to his work.

Roz looks bad. Her color is shocky-grey and it's more than obvious that she's in agony, though she doesn't scream or cry or even moan. He'd feel better if she did. Instead she just lies there as they cut her clothes off piece by piece and check her over before putting her in a gown and getting to work on the arm. From where he's standing he can see the wound where the electricity probably exited, just by her elbow. It probably traveled the length of her forearm, and that means all sort of bad things. "How did it happen?" Greg asks. To his surprise Roz is the one who answers.

"I was working on a dye . . . safety was off . . ." She makes a little sound that comes out somewhere between pain and self-disgust. _"Dumb_ass . . . there was a short and when I . . . when . . . I . . ." Her voice fades as her eyes flutter shut.

"Stay with us, sweet girl," Singh says as he examines her. "What happened next? Come on, Roz. Stay awake."

"I pushed the wire into place somehow . . . the dye hit the end of my . . . my damn finger . . . and fried my arm. _God_ it hurts!" She pauses. "Can someone . . . call Poppi?" Another pause. "Greg? Is he . . ."

He wants to answer her but he can't, the words are stuck in his throat and he can feel some horrible emotion rising inside him, expanding with every heartbeat.

"He's here," Singh assures her. "He's just outside the bay."

"I'm sorry," she says. Greg can't believe what he's hearing. It's too much, having her apologize for this because he wants to yell at her for being an idiot and cradle her in his arms and care for her himself, and he can't do any of those things. Very quietly he moves back, away from the ring of people around the gurney, and leaves the trauma area.

[H] [H] [H]

_7 p.m._

Sarah had just taken a chicken out of the oven when she heard the phone ring. She set the baking dish on the extra pot holder and went to answer the call. As she glanced out the mudroom door window she saw Gene still working in the garden, his back to the house.

The caller ID display read 'Singh, Dr. S'. She picked up, frowning. "Sandesh? What's up?"

"Sarah, get here as quickly as you can. House needs you. We're at the center. He's locked himself in his office and won't come out." Sandesh's voice was very quiet. Sarah swallowed on a suddenly dry throat.

"I'm on my way," she said, and ended the call. She flew to the kitchen, struggling out of her apron as she ran, and went to the back door. She pushed it open. "Gene!"

He drove her to the center, sending Minnie flying over the back roads in a manner that would have had her cringing at any other time. "Did Sandesh say what happened?" he asked.

"Only that Greg's holed up in his office," she said. "It's probably a panic attack—but after you worked with him on his meds he's been doing so well . . ." Her voice trailed off when she saw the ambulance parked in front of the entrance.

"I'll drop you off and meet you inside," Gene said. He pulled Minnie to the curb and Sarah hopped out, intent on getting to Greg as quickly as possible.

She saw Roz as she passed by the trauma bay. One look at the young woman's white face and bandaged arm and hand and Sarah's heart sank. "Oh god," she said under her breath. No wonder Greg had panicked.

"Sarah." Sandesh appeared in the doorway. He looked tense, worried. "Roz is fine for now, she's sedated. Come with me and I'll tell you what's happened."

It was a short walk to the offices at the back of the building, but by the time they reached Greg's door Sandesh had given Sarah a good overview of the situation. "Have you tried talking to him?" she asked.

"He's not answering. When he heard the news over the radio, he went into shock. I should have taken care of him then, but they'd just brought Roz in and I had to prioritize." Sandesh sounded guilty. Sarah offered him a slight smile.

"You did the right thing, House would tell you that himself if he could." With that she gave the door a couple of firm, quiet knocks. "Greg," she said, raising her voice a little. "It's Sarah. I'm here."

A few minutes later the deadbolt snicked as it turned to the open position, but the door remained shut. Sarah glanced at Sandesh. "Keep an eye on Roz," she said softly, and went into the office.

[H] [H] [H]

He has to admit, he debated on whether or not to let Sarah in. Nightmare memories of Dad's stern lectures, of Wilson's endless diatribes keep running through his mind for some reason, and he knows he won't be able to handle anything like that. But this is Sarah. She won't come barging in and start bitching him out over showing weakness or acting irresponsibly. She'll sit down and wait for him to tell her what's going on.

And that is exactly what she does. She settles into the hard, uncomfortable visitor's chair and places her hands in her lap, saying nothing. He pours another shot of the Booker's he keeps in his bottom drawer and downs it. It's the fifth one he's had in the last ten minutes.

"Brute Squad's been called in, I see," he says. Sarah smiles a little.

"Sandesh is worried," she says in her quiet way. "What happened?"

"Don't be disingenuous," he says, stumbling over the word just a bit. "He already told you."

"He gave me an overview of the situation. I'd like to hear it from your point of view."

"Why?" he hurls at her. "What difference does it make? We can sit here and talk all night and it won't change the fact that she's—" He stops, unable to say it.

"That Roz is injured and you couldn't help her," Sarah says. Greg glares at her. It's a wasted effort though; she probably can't see it too well, he hasn't turned on any lights and it's getting dark outside.

"Thank you _so _much for pointing that out," he snarls.

"No, I don't mean it that way." Sarah leans back in the chair. "Your objectivity is compromised."

He doesn't answer her, doesn't know what to say.

"You were and still are in shock, Greg. Even if you weren't, you know from your own training that it would have been extremely difficult for you to assess the situation and take care of Roz. You did the right thing by backing off and letting Sandesh and the nurses deal with her."

He can't help but laugh, a harsh, humorless sound. "So I managed to do one thing right." He dumps another shot into the glass and looks at it.

"What am I missing?" Sarah sounds so calm, so direct. He wants to shake her up, push her away, make her see her effort is a waste of time.

"You're as bad as Cuddy," he says, dismissing her. But she won't take the hint because she doesn't really know what he means by that. Predictably, she asks for clarification.

"How so?"

He lifts the glass and downs the shot, welcoming the sweet, smoky fire and the numbness it is spreading within him. Numb is good. "Doesn't matter."

"If you push the pain away it'll come back," Sarah says.

"Not if I move across the country. It'll never find me then, unless this is one of those Disney movies about dogs and cats trading wisecracks as they search for their worthless idiot human owners."

"Nothing's impossible. But what do you do when the pain's so big it can't be pushed away? Go back to Vicodin? Get a bigger bottle? Hide in here for the rest of your life?" Sarah is still quiet, but there's steel in her words now. Greg pours another shot.

"Why not? It sort of worked before."

"It didn't work at all. You were miserable and lonely." She leans forward. "There's more going on than pain, isn't there? You're afraid."

He says nothing, just dumps the bourbon inside him.

"You opened yourself up to Roz, and today you almost lost her—"

"Did lose her. She coded. They brought her back." It's getting harder to talk now, his tongue feels thick, sluggish. The alcohol is doing its good work.

"—and now you're scared to death that you let yourself be so vulnerable." Sarah sits back. "Welcome to the club, son."

He peers at her, can't see her. Annoyed, he turns on his desk lamp. The mellow light should be soothing but it hurts his eyes. He closes them for a moment. "You and Gene . . ."

"Yeah, me and Gene. I worried about him every day he was gone, scared out of my mind half the time that he would get killed or die of some infectious disease or just disappear." To his complete astonishment she leans in, takes the glass out of his hands, snags the bottle and pours a shot, which she then consumes in one quick swallow. Coughing, she wipes a hand across her mouth and puts the glass back. "Man, I hate bourbon."

"Don't trash my stash," he says, fascinated. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I needed to remember how much I hate bourbon," she says. "There's more to this. Not just shock and fear."

He knows what she's coming to, and it makes the panic inside grow. Without even the minimal inhibition barrier a non-alcohol-soaked mind can lend, everything starts to spiral out of control. He gets up, grimacing as his leg gives him a warning spasm, and walks to the window. He dialed down the TENS settings earlier because he needed a distraction from the bigger pain in his heart, and now he's got what he wanted. His thigh hurts like hell.

"Don't bother," he says.

"Have to, that's my job," she says. "So what else might be going on?"

"Grab another shot," he says to the window. "Maybe it'll shut you up."

"What else?"

"Nothing." He knows she won't leave it alone. "Okay, some . . . something. I need someone to drive me home."

"What. Else." Sarah is inexorable. Greg rests his forehead against the windowpane.

"Why can't you go harass your husband and leave me the hell alone?"

"Because I'm trying to rile you up," she says. "You already are, right? Just don't want to admit it, I'm thinking. Because when you love someone, you can _never_ get mad at them for doing stupid stuff and scaring the hell out of you."

He closes his eyes. "Don't."

"I mean, what a completely idiotic move, leaving that safety off. She had to know it was dangerous. What a moron. Now she's gonna have a long stint with rehab, a big gnarly scar and a messed-up hand—"

"_DON'T._" He turns to face her and almost loses his balance but manages to keep his feet under him. Sarah watches him. In the reflected light her face is intent, her eyes shadowed.

"You can drink yourself to death while you stay locked away in here, you can deny your feelings all you like, but that won't change the fact that you care enough about someone to be half out of your mind with worry and anger. You've got the added burden of reminders of what you went through years ago with your leg." She tilts her head a little. "And what other people who cared about you went through too." She pauses. "Greg."

He focuses on her, though it takes some effort. "Yeah."

"I'd be more worried if you weren't pissed off and having flashbacks to a terrible experience." She gets to her feet. "Come on. Let's see Roz before we go home."

The next thing he knows, they're standing by Roz's bed. She's been moved to what amounts to the ICU section, fairly close to the nurses station so they can keep an eye on her. Sitting beside the bed is Lou. Standing next to him, his hand on the older man's shoulder, is Gene. Greg looks at this tableau, sees the pain and worry in Lou's features, the quiet reassurance in Gene's, and hates them both for being able to handle this as well as they're doing. He's on his way to drunk and they're not—what does that make him?

"She's holding her own," Gene is saying. "She's young and healthy and those are the best advantages for helping repair the damage quickly."

"Doctor Singh said the same thing. What aren't you telling me?" Lou says quietly. He doesn't look at any of them, he's watching Roz sleep.

"Probable permanent nerve damage," Greg says. He hears the words coming out of his mouth, just a little slurred; he can't stop them, even though he knows he should. "Loss of range of motion, stimulation . . ." He trails off, comes back. "Stimulation of abnormal cell growth."

"Cancer, you mean," Lou says. He looks down, but Greg sees the sadness in his features. "Then we'll have to pray that doesn't happen."

"Yeah, for all the good that'll do," Greg sneers. "If things really go south she'll be facing amputation. Trust me, that's even more fun than the other options." He turns away, disgusted with himself and everyone else in this ridiculous scene. "Can we leave now?"

The ride home is silent. Gene is driving, Sarah squeezed between him and Greg. The tension level is up there, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters at this point except getting home, closing the door to his room and shutting everything and everyone out for as long as he can manage it—preferably until after the hangover's come and gone sometime tomorrow.

Once they are home however he can't bring himself to run for his bolthole, not right away. He limps into the kitchen to get a beer (if he can sneak it past Sarah) and smells the church-supper fragrance of baked chicken and cobbler, making his empty belly rumble. Somehow it seems wrong to be hungry when Roz is in intensive care, but he accepts a plateful of food and even manages a few bites, hoping they'll soak up what's left of the alcohol. He's slowly coming down from his buzz, tired and desperately unsure of what's going to happen next. He's afraid of what the long haul of recovery will mean, mostly for him, but also for Roz. He's not sure—no, he _knows_ he can't handle it. He's already screwed things up; why bother to even try when anything he does will just make things worse?

"Greg." Sarah says his name softly. "There is no perfect or right way to do this kind of thing. You'll make mistakes. Just remember, Roz knows you, and you know her," she gives him a little smile, her gaze bright with affection and understanding. "Take things as they come. I can guarantee she will."

He keeps that thought with him through the long evening and into the night as he lies awake in his bed, thinking of IV drips, monitors and a young woman sleeping through the first hours of her newly changed life, unaware of what is to come . . . just as he had been, once.

**_Please leave a review if you're so inclined, and thanks for reading._**


	2. Chapter 2

**_(A/N: here's your midweek extra, enjoy :) Thanks to mmgage and her husband for giving me the idea of Sarah making apple dumplings. Those pictures on your FB page look delicious!  
_**

**_ Please remember I am not a medical expert, nor do I play one on tv; Roz's treatment is based on personal knowledge and some online research, so any mistakes in procedure are solely my own. -B)_**

_October 4__th_

_10 a.m._

A few hours previous, morning dawned clear and crisp. Greg looks out the window at the bright day and feels a sense of oppression at the sight of brilliant blue sky and leaves changing color. Maybe it's because he's sitting beside Roz's bed at the center with Sarah, a visit he really doesn't want to participate in. Too late now, however.

"We want you to come and stay with us for a while," Sarah is saying. "You'll need to learn how to do things one-handed while you're healing, and it's a little easier when you've got people around to help out at first."

Roz gives Sarah a warm look. She is still pale, her eyes dark with fatigue and pain, but she's actually something approaching cheerful. Greg can't help but remember his own first days. He was anything but cheerful, and that's the understatement of the century. By the end of the first week after the surgery Stacy had taken up smoking again. At two weeks she'd aged five years.

"Poppi said you were going to offer. Thanks, I'd—I'd like that. I have just one request." She hesitates.

"What is it?" Sarah watches as Roz tucks a limp strand of dark hair behind an ear with her free hand. "Besides a shower."

"Yeah, I know I reek," Roz says with a weak chuckle.

"You're fine, but I'm sure you're sick of sponge baths," Sarah says. "We'll figure out a way for you to get cleaned up. Now, what do you need?"

"I was wondering if I could bring Hellboy out to stay too."

"Hmm . . . a black cat in the house for Halloween," Sarah says. "I think that can be arranged."

Roz looks relieved. "Thanks." She glances at Greg, then away. "I miss him."

Greg feels like he's expected to say something, but stays silent because he doesn't know what to offer that won't sound stupid or ridiculous. After a moment Sarah gets to her feet.

"I'm going to talk to the charge nurse and Doctor Singh about how things will be set up tomorrow," she says, and leaves the area. Greg stares at the floor. An awkward silence falls, to be broken by Roz's soft voice.

"Listen, if you don't want this I can stay with Poppi."

He can't look at her. "It's okay."

"I don't think so." She sounds sad. "You really don't want me to be around."

That makes him lift his head, outraged. "It's not—you really think I give a shit about that kind of thing when I've got _this_?" He gestures at his bad leg.

"Yeah, I do," she says, surprising him. "I know it's not personal, but I think you do. What happened to me . . . it reminds you of things you'd rather forget." She hesitates. "I don't want to cause you more pain, Greg. You've been through enough."

"I can take care of myself," he mutters as Sarah returns.

"If you loan me your keys again I can pick up some things at your place and bring your boy over today to get acclimated and do some exploring," she says, resuming her seat. As she and Roz talk about details Greg tunes them out, mulling over what Roz has said. He has to admit she's right; having her in daily proximity is going to bring back all kinds of memories he's struggled to push away for years, with little success. He lives with the result of the infarction every waking moment and recalls all the ignorance, indifference and betrayal the people around him displayed. Seeing Roz will make those recollections even more vivid and agonizing. She has a very long road ahead, full of rough spots and bumps and detours, and he's not sure he wants to travel it with her even though he feels something for her, a deep tenderness to which he has trouble admitting.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," Roz is saying. She sounds happy, a bit tentative. Greg knows she's looking at him.

"Yes you will," Sarah says. "I wish you were staying under different circumstances, but it'll still be good to have you with us for a while."

On the way home Greg stares out the window. He feels like he didn't have any choice in Roz staying, though that nowhere near the truth; Gene and Sarah expected him to participate in the decision-making as a matter of course, something he's still getting used to, and they genuinely didn't pressure him to answer either way. It's ironic that he would have welcomed someone making this choice for him. He doesn't want to have Roz around as a daily reinforcing reminder of what he went through years ago, but he doesn't want her at home alone, with nothing and no one to distract her from the pain.

"I can feel you brooding all the way over here," Sarah says. He glances at her, but she's not teasing him; she looks serious, a little tired. It occurs to him that she's been keeping an eye on Roz's place for the last week or so while she's been working to set up some help for Gene and keep her own household running—not exactly a tremendous strain, but not easy either. He says nothing however, just looks at the passing scenery.

"How are things going with the barn?" she asks. Greg feels a distant sort of surprise at the question.

"They're not," he says. "The electrician who was supposed to wire the place just ended up on workman's comp for the forseeable future."

"Ah." Sarah turns off the highway and onto their lane. "So you need someone to take over. I think that could be arranged."

Now he does look at her. "There isn't another electrician for miles. I checked."

"I have my sources," she says, and give him a quick grin. For the first time he notices a little glint of silver in her auburn curls—just one hair, but it catches the light in amongst the fiery sparks. "Trust me. I'll get you someone to do the work for cost and a smidge over."

"Gosh, thank you _Mom_," he says under his breath. Sarah chuckles, a soft musical sound he's come to secretly treasure. Despite his annoyance he feels reassured somehow.

Later that evening, when he's home from work and enjoying his first cold beer after dinner, Sarah comes in with two duffel bags, a reusable grocery sack and a soft-sided carrier. She sets everything down, then opens the carrier and scoops out the blackest cat Greg has ever seen. The animal settles into Sarah's arms as she strokes his head.

"Greg, this is Hellboy." She gives the cat a final caress and sets him on the floor. "Heebster, this is Greg. You two make nice please." With that she picks up the bags and sack and goes upstairs. The cat sits and begins to wash. Greg watches him.

"Hey cat," he says. Hellboy ignores him. "Hey." He gets nothing but a momentary dismissive stare, after which the bath continues.

"Call him by his name," Sarah says. She is descending the stairs. "He's pretty friendly, but he'll probably do some exploring first before he comes over to say hello."

"He's a cat," Greg points out. "You're anthropomorphizing like crazy."

"Spoken like someone who's never lived with a pet," Sarah says, and goes into the kitchen. Hellboy sits up, gives his fur a final lick and turns to follow her, his tail held high. As he enters the kitchen Greg hears Sarah talking—actually _talking_—to the creature as if he's capable of responding. But then maybe this is how people act around domesticated animals. Sarah's right, he never did grow up with a dog or cat in the house. His father was stationed all over the world during his childhood and youth, but even if they'd stayed in one place his parents would never have tolerated the mess, noise and inconvenience. As a young child he'd often dreamed of having a dog, but the reality of the situation was impressed on him fairly early on, with a brutal directness he came to know all too well in later years.

"Here." Sarah is standing in front of him. She holds out a small packet. The cat sits by her side, giving her an expectant look. "Try some treats. It's a good way to convince him that you're a friend. It would also help if you stopped glaring."

"He doesn't know a glare from a smile," Greg says. Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Take the word of someone who's had barn cats and yard dogs for best friends, they can tell. Anyway, goodies work." She sticks the treats in his empty hand and goes back to the kitchen. Greg looks down to find Hellboy sitting in front of him, all attention, his tail wrapped around his feet. He has eyes the color of old gold, almond-shaped and tip-tilted, and focused on the brightly-colored packet in Greg's hands. Greg gives it a little shake; the food inside makes a rustling sound. Hellboy's slit pupils dilate just a bit, his ears moving forward.

"Heh," Greg says. He sets his beer aside, puts a few treats in his hand and offers them to the cat, who comes up and takes them with all the delicacy and precision of a surgeon excising a minute tumor from brain matter. When the pieces of kibble are gone Hellboy licks his paw and washes his face, then goes off to explore. Greg watches him, enjoying the way each nook and cranny is scoped out in the most efficient and thorough way possible, and in almost complete silence. He sits back, reclaims his beer and checks the onscreen tv guide, conscious of an odd feeling of relaxation. Maybe this won't be as bad as he originally thought.

That night, when he is nearly asleep and listening to Sarah and Gene talk in the living room, he feels something jump up on his bed. A moment later a warm lump settles in behind the small of his back.

"Listen cat," Greg says. "Don't get comfortable. I move around a lot during the . . ." He trails off, shocked to realize now _he's_ the one talking as if the cat understands. He reaches down to grab the animal and put him on the floor. As his fingers slide through soft silky fur, a rough tongue gives his thumb several licks before Hellboy rubs his face against Greg's hand. Greg stills, arrested by the unexpected sensation. It is undeniably an affectionate gesture, mixed in with a bit of territoriality; he knows he's just been marked by the scent glands in the cat's cheeks.

"So, you've decided to claim me," he says, and can't help being both amused and maybe just a little pleased. Purring softly, Hellboy curls up in a neat little ball with his head now tucked against Greg's spine. It is a comforting feeling, having that slight weight snuggled close. "Oh, screw it," Greg says at last, and leaves things be.

_October 5th _

_10:30 a.m._

He is getting a cup of coffee and considering whether or not he wants some cinnamon toast when he hears Sarah and Roz come into the house. His hand tightens on the handle of the carafe; zero hour is here, and suddenly he's so scared he can't breathe.

"Good morning," Sarah says as she comes in. Roz is behind her, moving slowly. She looks the worse for wear, but at the sight of Greg her face brightens just a little—and that's what he's afraid of, her looking to him for solace and care. He can't do it, he'll hurt her and end up pushing her away, he'll lose her—

_("What the hell are you doing here?" He struggles up from a prone position on the couch and gives Stacy his first glare of the day. His head aches like a rotten tooth from everything he drank the evening before, and his leg is throbbing with a pain so profound he wants to rip something apart. "You moved out last night."_

"_Good morning to you too," Stacy says. She looks haggard, her smooth hair frizzed in places, her makeup not quite right because her eyes are too swollen, her foundation and concealer applied too liberally, and with an unsteady hand; she's been up all night crying, he can tell. "Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I'm not . . . I don't care about you."_

"_Take anything you want except the piano and the guitars," he says. His voice is cold, distant. Stacy looks at her hands._

"_So that's what it's come down to?" she says quietly. "I grab a few things and walk away?" _

"_Leave your keys when you're done," he says, and watches her flinch. A part of him feels a sort of savage exultation at hurting her; another, larger part is numb, dying._

"_Greg . . ." She swings her head to the side to look at him, a characteristic he knows so well it half-kills him to see her do it. "I don't know how many times . . ." She sighs. "I am sorry . . . I'm so—so __sorry__." Her voice is trembling. He can't stand this any longer._

"_Just push them through the mail slot," he says, and gets to his feet somehow. He limps down the hall to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. When he comes out again some time later, she's gone. Her keys sit on the coffee table, laid side by side on the polished wood. He picks them up, turns them over slowly, his touch gentle as he stares down at them unseeing. After a while he takes them to the kitchen and stuffs them in the junk drawer, the one she insisted they had to have. After that he returns to the couch and lies down, pulling the blanket over him as he waits for the Vicodin he just took to start working. Numb his pain, numb his mind; it's all good.)_

"How about some breakfast?" Sarah is saying. "There's apple dumplings left over from last night, and I can make scrambled eggs with cheese. You'll need something substantial so you can take your meds."

Roz goes to the table and eases into a chair. "I'd like that, thanks," she says, not looking at Greg now. "How'd the boy make out?" It takes him a moment to realize she's talking about her cat.

"Curled up on the couch, waiting for you," Sarah says, getting some eggs and shredded Colby-jack out of the fridge. "I think he slept downstairs last night—he didn't come up with me and Gene. I was disappointed."

Greg takes a breath and decides it's time to participate in the conversation. "He slept in my room," he says, his gaze on his mug.

"He must like you then," Roz says softly. Greg shrugs.

"I gave him treats. He was probably expecting more."

"So you're spoiling him already," she says. She doesn't sound upset. He takes a chance and glances at her. She's smiling, her shadowed green eyes almost free of pain for the first time in the last two weeks. Greg feels the tension in his gut loosen a bit.

"He doesn't know the difference," he says. "He just knew I had food he liked."

"Ah," Roz says. "Never had a dog or cat, I take it." She and Sarah exchange a look that makes his hackles rise. He puts the carafe down with a thump.

"Military brat, remember?" he says harshly. "We couldn't have pets."

There is a little silence. He can feel them pitying him and it's infuriating. Just as he's about to snap at them both for being judgmental assholes Roz says "So now you can make up for lost time."

"No thanks." He stirs sugar into his coffee. "Since I won't join the two of you in thinking cats and dogs are little people in fur suits, I'll opt out."

"All right," Roz says. He throws her a suspicious look. She returns it with a mild one of her own, but he sees past the muted emotion to realize she's tiring already. Sarah sees it too.

"Why don't we make you comfortable in the living room? You can have something to eat, grab a nap and later on you can take a shower before Greg comes home and changes your dressings." She's in full Mom mode, something she usually reserves for him alone, but he can't be jealous when he sees Roz really needs it.

Roz nods her head just as Hellboy jumps up on the table. Greg waits for Sarah to freak out, but all she does is send a resigned look the cat's way.

"Typical," she says. Roz leans forward and touches her nose to Hellboy's, her eyes closed. For a moment the stoic mask slips; she's vulnerable, hurting and lonely. Greg can't look away.

"Hello, beautiful boy," she says in a tone he's never heard her use before. "Oh, I've missed you so _much_." A tear slides down her cheek as she strokes the sleek head with a gentle finger. The cat rubs against her hand, her affection clearly returned in full. Greg is surprised to feel something akin to jealousy—ridiculous and foolish. Besides, he's the one who's been keeping Roz at a distance. He has no one to blame but himself if she shows more emotion to the cat than to him.

"Come on, you're wiped out," Sarah says. "You and the licorice drop can crash on the couch, I'll bring you breakfast."

By the time she's curled up with pillows and cushions and a thick blanket Roz is visibly exhausted. She eats some of the breakfast Sarah brings her but it's an effort, and after she takes her meds she falls asleep, Hellboy snuggled in beside her, his golden eyes keeping watch with a calm alertness that indicates he's guarding his human. Greg observes her. She's thinner, and there are shadows under her eyes.

"She'll heal," Sarah says quietly from the doorway. She comes in and picks up the dishes on the coffee table. "The first weeks are the worst."

"I know," he says. A month after his surgery he'd gone down twenty pounds, a significant loss for someone with a naturally low BMI to begin with. Then it dawns on him what Sarah's just said. She's speaking from personal experience too.

"Helping her will help you," Sarah is saying now. She goes into the kitchen. He rolls his eyes, but considers her words. Maybe she's right, maybe she's not. He can't see how bringing up the miseries of the past will do anyone any good, least of all him. Still . . .

He gets up and limps off to his room to smoke beside his open window before he heads off to work, and wonders how the hell he's going to get through the next few weeks.

**_Thanks for reading, and if you are so inclined please leave a review. _**


	3. Chapter 3

**_(A/N: the Phils game Gene and Roz watch was actually an evening game, so I'm using a bit of dramatic license. My hair stylist and her husband attended that game and caught a Halladay no-hitter baseball, then gave it to the young boy sitting next to them. Who says Phillies fans are jerks? :)_**

**_Gene's memories of Haiti are taken from experiences reported by UNICEF workers at their website. It's a great place to donate money; you'll be helping the children of Haiti as well as others in need around the world.  
_**

**_Thanks to everyone who's added me and/or my stories to their Alerts and Favorites lists, it's a high honor and I am most humbly grateful. Hope you enjoy this chapter-B)  
_**

_October 8__th_

_11 a.m._

Roz is waiting for Greg when he comes into the dining room with the wound care kit. They've established a ritual of sorts already; they have breakfast, she gets cleaned up in his downstairs bathroom, then he takes care of her arm.

"You don't have to do this," Sarah had told him the first night Roz came to stay. "I know basic care, I can—"

"I'll do it," he'd growled, and that was that. Now he sits down next to Roz.

"Ready?" he says. She nods.

Burn care is not for the faint of heart on either side. There is a lot of pain involved when it isn't done right, not to mention danger of infection, the worst outcome for a burn patient. He's been very, very cautious with her. He ordered his own supply of Siliflex dressings, antibiotic cream and Silvazine while she was still in the medical center. Her healing is progressing well, if slowly. Still, when he removes the old dressings and the air hits the wounds Roz draws in a hissing breath and her good hand clenches. She doesn't turn her head away though. She watches as he takes care of the burns, moving down her arm with precision. The kitchen radio is playing Al Green as Greg cleans, treats and covers, until he reaches her hand and the bulky dressing on her little finger.

"Pain level?" he asks, and a memory swallows him whole.

_("How's the pain this morning, Greg?"_

_He pulls his gaze away from the wall long enough to glare at the doctor. "Fucking __fantastic__," he sneers. Stacy gives him a worried, chastising look. Her strong features are pinched with exhaustion; the faint scent of cigarettes clings to her. She's already been out twice, so it's a bad day even before first round._

"_Better, worse, the same?"_

_He stares at the ceiling. "Same."_

"_Well, these things take time." The fatuous tone of voice sets him off._

"_What the fuck would you know about it? Have you ever had an aneurysm explode in your leg like a goddamn land mine, and NO ONE bothers to find out what the hell's wrong until it's too damn late?" His voice grows exponentially in volume. "It's not a matter of 'taking time', you moron! I'll be in pain for the rest of my life because you were all too fucking stupid to diagnose the problem properly!"_

"_Calm down. You're exaggerating." The indifference under the doctor's veneer of empathy is palpable. "This regimen of meds is the best we can offer. Why don't you give it a try for a month and see how things go? It'll need adjusting of course, but I think you'll see some improvement eventually."_

_Greg says nothing, seething with fury and helplessness, trapped in a body that has betrayed and now forced him to endure the ministrations of incompetent fools.)_

"About the same," Roz is saying. "It's a little worse at night." He's unwrapping the dressing, slowly exposing the damaged finger. It's a fairly significant loss, down to the base of the distal phalanx, sutured with an x-y plasty. The surgeon did a neat job of it, and everything appears to be healing well. He makes sure the site is okay, no infection or drainage, then wraps it again in clean dressings. A part of him feels sorrow for the ruin of her hand. It's a pretty one despite a few scars, with slender tapering fingers. Now its symmetry is gone forever. There is also a good chance she'll have to have the rest of the digit removed eventually; little fingers damaged in this way often become inflexible. They get caught on pockets or protruding objects and end up broken or mangled . . . He pushes the thought away and concentrates on his task.

"Fewer distractions at night. Any sharp pain?" he asks as he works. He is careful not to make eye contact with her.

"No, but it itches."

He secures the dressing with tape, careful to keep things loose so her circulation won't be compromised. "That's normal. Actually it's a good sign."

"Did that happen to you?" She asks it softly, but she's not being tentative or hesitant. He glances at her. She watches him steadily.

"No," he says. "No, it's been more or less all pain, all the time." He finishes the job. When he puts down the tape, Roz's good hand covers his for a moment.

"I didn't really understand before," she says. "Maybe I don't now either exactly, but I'm so sorry you've had to go through something like this."

It is a sincere statement, deeply felt and one of the most moving things anyone has ever said to him, even more so because there's no overwhelming emotion accompanying the words, just simple truth. He doesn't know what to say, so he does what comes naturally: he retreats.

"Gonna be late for work." He stands up. As he reaches for the wound care kit Roz says

"Thanks for taking such good care of me, _amante. _I know this isn't easy for you."

He looks at her. She's staring down at the tabletop, her head bent to hide her face. On impulse he leans down and brushes a kiss over her hair. She smells of shampoo and herself, that clean, musky scent he finds both comforting and irresistible. Then he turns and limps to the bathroom, to stow the wound care kit away and try to regain some semblance of composure before he goes to work on time for once. He has to get out of the house before he makes a complete fool of himself and breaks down in front of his girlfriend.

[H] [H] [H]

Roz put the tv remote aside and scritched the top of Hellboy's head. She was more comfortable now, her meds having kicked in a half hour ago; she doubted anyone was as cosseted and cared for as she was . . . and she was bored out of her mind.

"Care if I watch the game?" Gene sat down in the easy chair next to the couch. Roz gave him a smile.

"Not at all." She passed the remote to him, a little awkward because she had to reach over with her good hand. "Who's on?"

"Phils and the Reds," he said. "Playoffs, second game. The Phils are up one game." As he set the channel he said quietly, "How are you?"

"Tired," Roz admitted. She hesitated. "Bored. Is it terrible of me to say that?"

Gene smiled a little. "Nope. You're used to working long hours. Having all this free time is weird."

Roz glanced at him_._ "Yeah, it is. I feel . . . guilty."

Gene sat back, settling in. "Yeah."

"You too?" She watched as Hellboy left her side. He jumped the short distance to the chair and settled on Gene's chest, paws folded beneath him, his golden eyes closing in bliss as the spot between his brows was rubbed with the gentlest of touches.

"Me too." Gene rolled his shoulders a little, careful not to disturb the cat. "I've been back a month now. I should be at work, but they slapped me with a leave of absence."

"That sucks," Roz said.

"For people like us, yeah," Gene said. Roz couldn't help but smile.

"You mean workaholics," she said.

"Yup."

They watched the game in silence for a while. Then Gene said "Maybe a little later we could play Grand Theft Auto. We have the new one."

"Cool," Roz said, then remembered her bandaged hand. "Um, I'll try."

"Aw damn, Roz. I forgot." Gene gave her an apologetic look. She smiled at him.

"Hey, it's mostly thumb action, right? I can do that."

At the end of the first inning Roz ventured a question. "Did you miss this kind of thing in Haiti?"

Gene frowned, but she could tell it was because he was thinking, considering her words.

"Not as much as you'd expect," he said at last. "We had basics—food, water, shelter, a place to get clean, access to first aid. I could go online or use the satphone and be in touch with my wife and family, my friends. Those are all things most of the population of the country don't have—many of them never did." He fell silent for a moment. "No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't keep up with the need. But most of them were grateful for what we did manage to give them. In fact they even shared what they had with us. It was incredibly humbling."

"What are Haitians like?" Roz asked. "I've never met anyone from there."

Gene's expression brightened a little. "They're amazing. The children in particular are so resilient. Once I watched an aid worker teaching a group of six-year-olds how to play duck-duck-goose. You wouldn't think in the middle of all that misery and pain that any child would want to learn a silly game. So many of them have nothing left, not even family." He settled back a bit and stroked Hellboy's fur. "It took them all of thirty seconds to figure it out, and then they began to laugh and have fun, just like kids do anywhere. It brought the entire camp to a standstill. It was . . ." He fell silent a moment. "It was a moment outside, if you know what I mean."

"I think so." Roz scratched her intact little finger. Gene glanced over at her.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. The other one itches but I can't get to it, so I have to make do."

Gene chuckled softly, his strong features more relaxed than she'd seen him since she'd arrived at his house. "When do you get your stitches out?"

"Another couple of weeks." She lay her cheek to the couch leather, enjoying the cool, smooth feel. "I'll have some butt-ugly scars from this."

"What happened?" Gene turned the sound down on the game. "If you don't want to talk about it—"

"No, it's okay." She closed her eyes, the memory waiting for her as it always did when she stopped deliberately thinking about other things. "I was at Greene's, working on a dye with the safety switch turned off. The damn thing's older than God and they run it for both shifts seven days a week, with no regular maintenance. Management never cares if things break down, they just throw an electrician at the problem and expect a miracle. Anyway, I knew there was a short somewhere, so I was checking the diagram and trying to figure out what was what, thinking about three different things at once—you know, what to have for lunch, did I put gas in the truck . . . I accidentally moved a piece of paneling and created an arc from the loose wire that was causing the problem in the first place. The dye came down and got my finger and the arc nailed my arm." She swallowed, remembering the almighty shock of the pain. "The surgeon said I was lucky that ninety-eight percent of the burns are external. I just have the exit wound."

"Jesus." Gene reached out and took her good hand in his for a moment. "What a hell of an experience."

Roz was grateful that he didn't offer platitudes about how she would heal and forget or that everything would be all right; Sarah hadn't said those things either, and Greg had said almost nothing at all, good or bad . . . but she remembered his lips touching her hair with infinite gentleness. No words needed there. "It was. I bet you could say the same thing for a different reason."

"Yeah." He stared at the screen. "No one gets it . . . they don't understand. They try, but . . . it's hard to put things into words, even when you've been trained to know how."

Roz nodded. It was an answer she could agree with completely. "You don't have to talk about it either, but is it because of what you went through in the Marines?" she asked. Gene sighed a little.

"Somalia was . . . it was nothing I'd ever dreamed could be happening anywhere in the world. Haiti was just as intense, just as terrible, in a somewhat different way." He tipped his head back and obviously couldn't help but smile when Hellboy patted his chin with a velvet paw. "You know, I was wrong. The Heebster here understands everything."

"He's an excellent listener," Roz said. "Pretty good at keeping secrets too." Gene chuckled.

"I'll bear that in mind." He tickled Hellboy's left ear, then lifted him with care and put him back on the couch. "I'm up for a Coke and something to munch, how about you?"

He came back a short time later with much more than a simple snack. Roz eyed the tray of pizza rolls, apple slices and caramel corn. "I'll get fat."

"What the heck, I'll join you," Gene said, and Roz laughed. They turned their attention back to the game, divvying up the spoils.

"Someone needs to root for the opposite team," Roz said, tongue in cheek. "You should do it. You come from out west. Omaha's near Cincinnati, isn't it?" She sipped her Coke.

"Easterners," Gene said with gentle mock-scorn. "I swear, you all think everything from Ohio to Kansas is one big farm on a dirt road and no civilization." He popped a pizza roll into his mouth. "Sure, fine, whatever. Go Reds."

Roz laughed and snitched an apple slice from his plate as Hellboy curled up beside her, his golden eyes narrowing to slits while he drowsed, basking in the softness of the blanket and her body warmth.

[H] [H] [H]

Sarah pried open the mudroom door and stuck the overloaded basket through, then placed it on the floor. She'd spent the better part of the morning in her garden cleaning up the last of the annual herbs and searching for partially ripe and green tomatoes to put under newspaper. This trip was to gather the winter squash; she'd found a bumper crop of Buttercups and a few enormous Grey Hubbards. They'd have plenty to get them through till spring, there were at least two more basketfuls waiting to be collected. She wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead and pushed back the bandana tied over her hair to keep it of the way. It was hard work hauling everything in but she enjoyed the physicality of it, the bunch and release of her muscles, the feel of sunshine warm on her face, the sweet, herbal smell of fallen leaves and frost-nipped plants.

As she piled the vegetables in an old peach bushel, she heard Gene laugh. The sound made her pause. She straightened, tucked an errant curl behind her ear, and waited. A moment later she heard Roz say something above some background noise—they were watching the baseball game. Sarah bowed her head, listening. They were chatting back and forth, an easy, relaxed conversation she hadn't heard from Gene since he'd returned home.

_Well,_ she thought, _at least he's talking to someone. _Her husband had been silent and withdrawn from the moment he'd stepped off the plane in Newark. Not that he'd treated her badly, or ignored her; he just wasn't speaking. They'd made love two nights after his arrival. He'd ended up with his back to her, struggling not to cry. It had been the only attempt either one of them had tried since his return. Gene had always been emotionally distant when it came to difficult memories; she'd never pushed him to open up to her, but he'd done so on a number of occasions in the past. Now however . . . Sarah felt a strong pang of jealousy that he was talking to Roz and not her. She let the emotion move through her, her heart squeezing in her chest as she found the root cause: a profound sense of inadequacy. She was too close to her husband, a good thing in every other way, but it meant she couldn't help him.

_Prof's coming in another week, _she thought. _I'm doing all I can for Gene from where I stand, especially with Greg and Roz to keep an eye on him too. _She thought with some wistfulness of Cape May. _I'd be sitting down to a lunch someone else made, with proper tea and those wonderful chopped egg and watercress sandwiches Mamie always makes for me . . . well, there's always next summer. _Sarah put the squash she was holding in the bushel, picked up the empty basket and went back to her garden to continue the harvest.

**_If you are so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day. _**


	4. Chapter 4

**_(A/N: in the spirit of the season so to speak, we're going to have a little fun with ghostbusting. Now before the howls of protest start, let me just say this: 1) I'm well aware House does not believe in ghosts or anything under the label 'paranormal' or 'supernatural', 2) at no time during the proceedings will House or anyone else meet a full-body apparition with its head tucked under its arm, and 3) we're coming up to Samhain/Halloween, a time when the walls between the worlds grow thin, and spirits of the underworld walk the earth-so why not explore that theme just a bit? :) _**

**_Many thanks to mmgage and her husband for their immense help with this and future chapters. Visit their investigative team's Facebook page by searching for 'ECIPI', it's well worth a looksee. -B)_**

_October 9th_

_9:30 p.m._

"We can't do this investigation without you, Roz. You're the linchpin for the whole team."

Roz rolled her eyes and was glad Tony couldn't see her. There were some advantages to phone calls versus webcam conferences. "You and I basically _are_ the whole team right now."

"My point exactly! If you're not there to help we won't be able to accept the invitation to check this place out, and we've been waiting for this for ages! You know it's going to be a good case, there are so many stories from different owners." Tony lowered his voice. "If it's about the . . . you know . . ."

"My hideously scarred and mutilated arm?" Roz said sweetly, heavy on the sarcasm because Tony usually needed help recognizing it. "What about it?"

"Now come on, don't be all touchy. I was just going to say, if you want to run the monitors and let me and Jim do the search—"

"No _way_." Roz's slight amusement vanished. "Jim does not come on investigations with us ever again. He almost ruined our reputation last time, showing up drunk. If we want to be taken seriously we have to be as professional as possible."

"Yeah, okay," Tony said, sounding resigned. "But we need one more person."

"I know. I'll ask around. Maybe Dot would be willing to go. She was pretty good the night we scoped out that church someone converted into a house."

"If you consider someone jumping at every noise and running like hell for the front door 'pretty good'," Tony said with some sarcasm.

"But she came back," Roz said, which earned her a chuckle.

"True."

"We'll think of someone," Roz said. "Why don't we work on a list of possible candidates and get back with each other?"

Tony agreed and she ended the call, feeling discouraged. A noise on her left brought her out of her thoughts. It was a snort of derision.

"You cannot be _serious._" Greg was settled in his easy chair, watching her with eyes as hard and bright as diamonds. "Don't tell me you actually believe in that garbage."

Roz put the phone back in the base and perched on the couch. Her arm was beginning to hurt in earnest and she was still twenty minutes from taking her meds; nights were the worst that way. "Define what you mean by 'garbage'."

"Anything _paranormal_," Greg said. He made it sound like a profanity. Roz held back a sigh and rubbed her eyes.

"Care to elaborate?" she said.

"You're in pain," he said.

"Yes I am," Roz said. "Answer the question."

Greg tilted his head. "Do you believe in UFOs, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis?"

"I get the idea. You don't have to quote Ghostbusters," she said, her irritation growing. "That isn't what our group is about."

Greg folded his arms. "Enlighten me."

Roz took the plunge. "We want to figure out why unusual events are occurring in a given area. We investigate, gather evidence, then try to find the best theory or explanation for what we've discovered."

"And how many spooks have you met face to face?" Greg was ridiculing her now. It added to the physical pain she was feeling. Because she was tired, Roz gave in to her annoyance a little more readily than she would have otherwise.

"None that I know of," she said with some acerbity. "I've heard what sounded like someone walking behind me and once something touched my face, but we only have audio evidence for the footsteps. The other incident was personal and I couldn't offer any evidence, so we had to discount it."

His mockery was replaced by incredulous amusement. "You're trying to use a scientific approach?"

Roz struggled against a desire to thump him on the noggin. "We do the best we can to find a natural explanation first, yeah. Disbelief is a good place to work from."

"And just what do you do with the things you can't explain?"

"We plaster photos all over our Facebook page and tell the world we've seen a real ghost, what else," Roz snapped. In a reckless impulse borne of pain and irritation she went a step further than she would have otherwise. "Check us out if you don't believe me. We're under the title 'UNYPR'. Have fun laughing yourself sick at our expense, I'm sure you're be vastly entertained." She rose and headed for the kitchen, wincing as her arm throbbed. At least making a cup of tea would keep her occupied until she could take something.

[H] [H] [H]

By the time Roz is in the kitchen Greg is at his desk, checking out her FB page. He won't admit it but he feels a little grudging respect for her determination to be a skeptic, although as far as he's concerned that should be anyone's permanent default position on this non-topic.

The site looks good—no wild claims, blurry photos of dust motes masquerading as 'orbs' (whatever the hell those are) or emotional anecdotal stories. He skim-reads through the entries, which are mostly logs. They've got an impressive history of cases stacked up, using a logical, methodical and thorough search pattern in each instance. There's a disappointing lack of incidents or whatever they're called, but a wealth of solid physical evidence: meteorological and atmospheric conditions, sunspot activity, moon phase, and even the health and well-being of the team members at the time of each investigation. He chuckles a little over Roz's dry report in the last log, where they claimed to have heard the footsteps: _"No, I'm not menstruating."_ All in all, it's not a bad effort for amateurs, not bad at all.

As he considers the data scrolling by, a thought occurs to him. After a moment he shuts down the site and heads into the kitchen.

[H] [H] [H]

"I want you to investigate my office."

Roz put her teabag in the compost scrap bucket and kept her back to Greg. "Yeah, right."

"No, really." He came a little closer. "Things have gone missing, files messed up, furniture rearranged . . . I want to know who or what's causing it."

Roz stirred some sugar into her cup. "Why us?"

"What do you mean, why you guys? I'm not supposed to be the least bit curious?" Greg moved around to her side and opened the fridge to extract a beer. "Something weird's going on. I'd like to know what it is. It's the very definition of your _raison d'etre_."

"You've already checked things out, you don't need the team to come in," she said, and sipped her tea.

"Well _yeah, _I did some poking around," he said, as if that was an obvious conclusion. "Couldn't find anything. No wires, no sleight of hand, no nothing. So there's no reason why you can't come in and poke around too."

Roz set the cup down with care. "Gee, that's _very_ generous of you," she said, unable to keep her cynicism at bay. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Greg pause.

"I'm a bighearted kind of guy," he said after a moment. His tone was guarded. Roz said nothing. She fought the urge to look at the clock, took her cup and went to the dining room table. The pain was beginning to push at her as it moved in pulsing waves.

"You can take your meds a few minutes early," Greg said. "You won't be breaking any rules." Now he sounded annoyed. Roz ignored him and concentrated on her tea. "Oh, great. Pain has turned you into a martyr. That goes so well with being a cripple."

"I'm not a martyr," she said despite her determination to stay silent. "I don't want . . ." She bit her lip. Greg sat down across from her. In the mellow lamplight his gaze was piercing.

"What are you afraid of?" he said, in that harsh way she knew by now meant he was upset or angry. "You're taking prescription ibuprofen because you didn't want narcotics. What's the matter, don't want to end up like me?"

Roz stared at him. "You think this is about _you_? Well, it's not. I didn't want Percocet or Vicodin because-because I got hooked on codeine when my dentist had to pull two wisdom teeth a few years ago. After the scrip ran out I went through three days worth of withdrawal, it was—" She stopped, surprised to find she was shaking.

"Amateur," Greg said. Roz's anger began to rise.

"Oh, I see. This is some kind of weird contest between you and me that you're always going to win since you're just that much more damaged, you've been through it all and had it so much worse." She resisted the urge to hurl the contents of her cup at him. "Fine. If all you're going to do is mock me then just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

"Ooohh, touchy," Greg said. "Maybe that's because someone _needs her meds._"

Roz gritted her teeth. "And in ten minutes I'll get them. So shut up."

"Ten minutes isn't going to—"

The last of her composure shattered. "What part of 'no' do you not understand?" she yelled at him. "If I want to wait, then I'll wait and your prodding me is pointless!" She got to her feet, grabbed her cup from the table and stalked off to the kitchen, her arm aching from shoulder to missing fingertip. She put the cup in the sink and went through the mudroom, to stand at the back door window and look out on darkness. _This is not going to work, _she thought. _Not unless something changes. _She felt Greg come up behind her and closed her eyes, preparing for battle.

"Meds are on the counter by the fridge," he said after a brief silence. She didn't acknowledge him. He hesitated. "There's no contest going on," he muttered, and left her there.

[H] [H] [H]

_This isn't going to work,_ he thinks as he sits by his window. The night breeze is verging on chilly, but he needs a smoke and the cold air helps clear his mind. At least he's hoping it will, because right now he's enduring all kinds of stupid emotions whirling around inside him and he hates every moment of it.

A quiet knock has him putting away the Marlboros before he lights up. When he opens the door he finds Roz standing there, as expected. She doesn't ask to come in; she just looks at him, her expression impassive.

"I'm sorry," she says at last. Greg puts his hand on the jamb, staring down at her in surprise.

"Why?" he asks.

"You . . . you were right," she says. Her gaze does not leave his. She means it.

He doesn't move, but does dare to prod her a little. "About . . . ?"

Her eyes flash, but she answers him. "I'm afraid I'll end up hooked on something again. Besides, I saw what it did to my mom." She stops, then continues. "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I mess this up?"

"You won't." He knows it as surely as he knows _he_ wasn't strong enough, he _did_ mess things up all those years ago.

She looks away. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

He makes a gesture of dismissal. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," she says, her tone fierce. "I don't want to hurt you." Her good hand reaches out, only to pull back before she touches him. "I'm . . . I'm going to Poppi's in the morning," she says. "It's a better thing—"

"No," he says on some impulse he doesn't understand, and takes a breath. Before she can reply he steps forward and puts his hand under her chin, lifts her face to his and kisses her, tentative and soft, his mouth gentle on hers. When he dares to look her lips are parted a little, eyes closed, her long dark lashes lying against her skin, and in that moment he knows beyond any doubt that he loves her, dammit to hell. She loves him as well, he understands that too. It's a stupid, logic-free intuitive knowledge that he feels deep in his bones. "Don't go. Please," he whispers, though he's not really quite sure what he's asking when he says it.

_Isn't __this__ a pretty kettle of rotten fish guts,_ his irrationally emotional side says in disgust. _So much for an easy lay without complications. _He ignores the familiar voice and stays close, longing to hold her and knowing he doesn't dare to do so.

"All right," she says after a long, breathless silence, and he has to stop himself from kissing her again. She's about one move away from fleeing; he's not feeling too steady himself.

"Okay," he says, and steps back. She nods, still avoiding his gaze, and turns from him. He sees she is cradling her arm; her meds haven't kicked in yet. She's still hurting, and yet she came to apologize anyway. He is about to close the door when she says

"We'll investigate your office."

"Okay," he says again after a moment. She nods and goes to the stairs. He shuts the door and takes the Marlboros from atop his chest of drawers, but his heart isn't in it now. Instead he goes to the window, pulls down the sash and sits on his bed, staring at the floor and wondering how on earth he's going to deal with what he's just discovered.

[H] [H] [H]

_October 10__th_

_10 a.m._

"I love her."

Sarah lifted the finished waffle from the iron, placed it on a plate with the others, added more batter and closed the halves together. She turned to look at Greg.

_That's quite a revelation. He won't thank me for making a big deal out of it. _"Well," she said aloud. He stirred the eggs in the skillet and didn't respond to her comment. "What happened?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "She loves me too. Great story, two cripples together."

"I know you didn't tell her that because you're still alive, well and in one piece," Sarah said dryly.

"Right now she wouldn't believe me even if I did tell her," he said. There was a subtle forlorn note in his tone that made Sarah's maternal instincts rise. She subdued them and answered him with a quiet confidence she knew he needed to hear.

"You'll find the right time."

He stared at her, then gave a hesitant nod. They worked together in companionable silence for a while, until he broke the silence once more. "I asked her to check out my office," he said. Sarah frowned.

"Check out . . . ?" Comprehension struck. "You want her to do an _investigation_?"

"Hey, apparently there's crazy shit going down in that broom closet I call home at work. Why not bring in the professionals?"

"You'd better not be setting this up as some kind of prank," Sarah said, troubled by this turn of events. "Roz takes cases very seriously. If she finds out you're jerking her around—"

"I'm not." He gave her a wounded look, eyes wide. "Why would you assume that?"

Sarah regarded him with wry amusement. "I've heard you expound in the past on the subject of paranormal experiences. You're not a fan by any stretch, son."

Greg exhaled a long, slow breath. "Something weird's going on in my office. I want to know what it is. What the hell's wrong with finding out?"

"Nothing," Sarah said mildly. She leaned against the counter, intrigued by this turn of events. "Okay, so you're serious. What's been happening?"

"Things have gone missing," Greg said. "I come in and find files on the floor, furniture pulled out of place—it could be a scene right out of _Poltergeist_."

"What's disappeared?" Sarah checked the waffle.

"My balls." He was all innocence. "No, really."

She rolled her eyes. "What else?"

"Little things—pens, binder clips, a spoon sitting in a coffee mug." Greg transferred the scrambled eggs to a small casserole dish and picked up the peppermill. "I thought at first it might be housekeeping, but why the hell would they take all that random stuff?"

"You think you're being pranked," Sarah said. She opened the iron, keeping a surreptitious eye on Greg.

"I think someone's trying very hard to get my attention," Greg said. "Now they've got it." He dusted freshly ground pepper over the eggs. "I want to find out why they want it."

"Well, Roz will be your best chance at getting to the heart of the mystery," Sarah said, placing another waffle on the stack. She took the plate and put it in the oven to keep warm beside a second plate full of sausages. "Her team's helped several people find out what's really going on in their house or workplace. They don't make wild claims and they don't jump to conclusions."

"We'll see," Greg said. He put the dish of eggs on the island counter and gave Sarah a hard stare. "No comment on what I said before all this paranormal hoo-ha?"

Sarah turned off the waffle iron. "I'm glad you're finally paying attention to your emotional side," she said in a dry tone. "Took you long enough." She turned to the fridge. "Maple syrup or raspberry preserves?"

"So you're good with the whole ghostbusting thing."

"Of course. I am Irish, Greg," she reminded him. "Haven't met a Celt yet who didn't believe in spooks."

"You're saying you really believe there's something going on beyond life as we know it?" He snorted. "Wishful thinking."

"I consider all possibilities," Sarah said. "It's part of my job. Let's get breakfast on the table."

**_Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	5. Chapter 5

_**(A/N: this chapter is dedicated to MissBates and her desire for more Wilson. If you haven't read her wonderful one-shot **_**Doomed_ here at FF (along with the rest of her work), I suggest you check it out. Excellent fic. -B)_**

_October 15__th_

_11:35 p.m._

Greg surfaces from light sleep to a sound he hasn't heard in some time.

"_You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen . . ."_

Groaning, he crawls out of bed and pushes aside some dirty sweats to find his cell phone, then hesitates. Does he really want to take this call? The late hour tells him this will be a conversation he won't enjoy in any way. He could let it go to voicemail . . .

With profound reservations he presses 'talk'. "Yeah."

"_House!_ _House,_ 's Wilson!" Wilson's slurred speech is so loud Greg pulls the phone away from his ear. "_House!_"

"I think we've established who you are and that you're talking to me," Greg says. "What do you want?"

"_House!_ Wan'ed t'call you fer ages . . . how ya been?"

"Sober and employed," he replies, keeping his replies simple out of wariness born from long experience. Wilson doesn't tie one on like this unless he's in deep emotional waters of some kind. He also isn't calling to ask about Greg's current state of affairs.

"Tha's grea', tha's grea'. Guesssss wha'?" Wilson gives a sort of drunken sigh of impatience. "Nonono, f'get it. I'll jus' tell you. You were righ'. You're a'ways righ', House. You were righ'."

"About what?" Greg says when nothing else is forthcoming.

"Huh?"

"What am I right about?"

Wilson gives a loud burp. "Ah . . . sorry . . . wha'?"

"What. Am. I. Right. About?" Greg speaks loud and slow, emphasizing each word.

"Oh yeah . . . you, you're a'ways righ' House, d'you know tha'?"

Greg grits his teeth. "Wilson, either give yourself a coffee enema and sober up or get off the phone."

Wilson finds this most amusing. "Hahahahaha! I couldn' fin' my ass with both han's a' th' . . . a' th' momen' . . . heeheeheeeeeee!" He subsides to giggles. Greg finds himself torn between exasperation and amusement.

"That's true when you're sober too," he growls. "What the _fuck_ do you want?"

"Hahaha," Wilson chortles. "Yeah, 'kay, hmm . . . Wan'ed t'tell you Sam lef'. She lef' me, House. You said she . . . she would." The laughter slides into lugubrious sorrow. "House . . . she _lef'_ me."

"Got it," Greg says. "Are we done here?"

"Jus' . . . packed up her stuff an' pfffffft!" It's obvious Wilson is gesturing with the phone by the way his voice fades and then grows stronger. "She lef'."

"Where, oh where are you tonight?" Greg says. "Why did you leave me here all alone? I searched the world over and I thought I found true love, but you met another and pfffft! You were gone."

"Ohmygod, _House!_ Tha's it, tha's it _'zackly!_" Wilson is obviously astounded. "How'd you know? You a'ways know. Bu' how . . . how'd you know?"

"I'm just smart that way." Greg scrubs a hand over his face. "Did she give you a reason _why_, by any chance?"

"Ohhhhhh, yesssss . . . yesshe did. She . . . she tol' me I was . . . consipated_._" Wilson's voice quivers with indignation. "Can you b'lieve that, House? _Consipated_."

"No laxatives for you. One dose and you'll cease to exist," Greg says, trying hard to sound deeply concerned. "Come on, Wilson. It's a fair diagnosis."

"Fair? _Fair?_" Maudlin emotionalism has turned to bewilderment; Wilson sounds like he's drowning in it. "'r you _kiddin' _me? House! C'mon! Howzat _fair?_"

"You really don't want to ask me that," Greg says.

"Nononooooo, c'mon, tell me, howzat fair? Huh? Cuz I did ev'rything she . . . she wan'ed . . . House, I was kissin' her _ass._ I bent over _back_w'ds f'tha'—tha' bitch an' she . . . she _lef'_ me. Why'd she leave me, House?"

"I guess she got tired of seeing you standing on your hands with your lips puckered up." The mental image is priceless. "Or maybe it's because your last name isn't Fleet."

"I don' know wha' I'm gonna do," Wilson moans. "She's gonna . . . gonna di_vorce_ me . . . I _married_ her, dammit. _Married_ her. Jussus of'a peace, new dress, bought her flowers . . . bought a new suit . . ."

"Bet she looked good in it."

" . . . now'm gonna owe 'er double al'mony."

"Gloom, despair, and agony on me," Greg says, allowing himself a little fun. "Deep dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Gloom, despair, and agony on me."

"'_zackly._ Knew you'd unners'an'."

"Aaaand this concerns me how?" Greg asks, effectively putting the kibosh on hilarity. There is a baffled silence.

"Yer my _fren_'," Wilson says finally. He sounds hurt.

"That's not strictly accurate. It hasn't been for a while. You said so yourself over two years ago." Now it's out and there's no taking it back.

"Wh . . . wha' . . . ?"

"You heard me." Greg knows he sounds cold, but there doesn't seem to be any way to stop what's coming out of him.

"I—I—tha's no' true!" Outrage fills the slurred words. "I'ma one took y'ta Mayfiel'!"

"You did," he agrees. "You came to visit, you kept tabs on me. I moved in with my shrink, you encouraged me to work with her. And when things began to change, you did what you always do. You tried to sabotage things, the same method you probably used on Sam."

There is a long silence. He can almost hear the rusty mental wheels grinding as the other man struggles to work his way through what Greg's said.

"I wanna see you happy," Wilson says finally. "Jus . . . wanna see you happy. 'Zere somethin' _wrong_ wi'tha'?" There is a pleading quality to the statement that tugs at Greg, much to his dismay.

"Wilson . . ." he says, at a loss for words.

"Nononooooo, House! _House!_ I wanna see you fin' a good job, an' a woman an' all kin'a cool sssstuff . . ." Wilson's voice trails off, then comes back. "I jus' think you cou' do it here in Prince'n, y'know? Wha'sso . . . wha'sso great abou' livin' up there in th'damn back a'beyon' Eas' Bumfuck?"

"If I have to tell you you'd never understand," Greg says. "So are you keeping the condo?"

"Don' have a choice." Wilson sounds forlorn. "Lissen House . . . you c'n come 'n stay wi' me. I know y'tol' Cuddy you—you quit, bu' I betcha you c'n getcher old job back."

There is a brief silence as Greg takes in this statement. He considers just ending the call and blocking the number, but something inside, some urge he's never given into before now, pushes him to speak. "Let me get this straight. According to you, my best chance at happiness is to pick up where I left off before Mayfield because Sam's gone and you're alone." Anger and something like fear swamps him for a moment. He remembers the empty, numbing pain of those days, the terror of knowing his sanity and his gift were slipping away from him bit by bit while he watched, helpless to stop it. "It was perfectly okay for _you_ to leave and start a new life when Amber died, but I'm supposed to stay stuck in the same miserable rut forever so you've got somebody to turn to when your girlfriend d'jour breaks up with you? Do you have _any_ fucking clue what you're asking for? What's next, another damn DBS?"

"You . . . you soun' kin'a pissy," Wilson says doubtfully.

"I'm not _pissy_, you moron!" It's like some kind of dam's broken deep inside, and torrents are rushing out through the cracked clay walls. "I wasn't happy in Princeton, I was _miserable!_ Do you think I want to go back to narcotics addiction and mental instability and pain just so you can have me to hold your hand when it's convenient for you?"

"I—I—I woun' do tha'," Wilson protests in a rather feeble fashion. "You don' unnerstan' . . ."

"I understand just fine. I'm your friend when you've got no one else around." The hurt fills him, raw and blinding, shredding him like cheap paper and making a mockery of any thought he ever had about being past what's happened between them. "Fuck that. Stop bugging me to do stupid shit. I don't need any help in that department."

"I'm askin' you t'come back an' be happy," Wilson says. He sounds mulish but even more sloshed—both bad signs; the last round of alcohol is kicking in, undoubtedly. Greg surmises he has a very limited amount of time now to do what has to be done. In resignation he tries his best to set aside his feelings, though he's still trembling with anger.

"You're at home, right?" There are no sounds in the background indicating Wilson's in a bar somewhere, but Greg needs to make sure.

"Be happy . . . don' worry be happy . . ." The off-key singing makes Greg wince. "Wha' . . . wazzat?"

"Are. You. At. Home."

"Huh? Oooohhhh . . . yeah . . . I'm inna condo. Allllll 'lone." Wilson makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. "She _lef'_ me. Di' I . . . di' I tell you? House, di' I tell you she lef' me?"

"Yeah, you did. Wilson, you're gonna do a few things."

"Sure . . . an'thin' f'you, House."

Greg sighs. "Go to the bedroom and lie down on the bed."

"Be'room . . ." Wilson grunts as he staggers to his feet. A few moments later he smashes into something solid by the sound of the impact. "Ow! _Go'dammit!_ Fuckin'. . . dum'ass wall . . . 'kay. House . . . House, I'm inna be'room. She took th'com . . . com . . . comforder. Jus' blanky anna shee's lef'."

"You sure know how to pick 'em, cowboy. Lie down on the bed on your side."

Little rustly-crinkly noises indicate Wilson is doing his best to follow instructions. When he speaks again he's breathing hard.

"House . . . can' get on'a side. Room's movin' . . ."

"Yes you can." Greg makes his voice stern. "Do it!"

More rustling, then Wilson says slowly "don' feel s'good . . ."

"Jesus." Greg puts a hand over his eyes. "Puke on the . . ." But it's too late; he hears Wilson hurl and knows it's in the bed, not on the floor. There will be repercussions, not the least of which will probably be the purchase of a new mattress. At least he won't be there to deal with any of it, starting off with the spectacular hangover that'll be coming up about eight to ten hours from now. "Wilson? _Wilson!_"

"Ooohh . . . tha' was . . . tha' wuz bad," Wilson groans. "Tas' nasty."

"I have no doubt. Do me one last thing."

"Mmm . . ."

"Push some buttons on your keypad."

"'kay . . . _sssshit_. Dark in here . . . House, I can' _see_ . . ." Wilson sounds like a whiny five year old.

"Just do it," Greg says, using his best authoritative tone. An erratic barrage of beeps assails him as Wilson stabs at the phone—and then suddenly the line is silent. Greg looks at the screen, sees 'call ended', and lets go a long, slow breath.

[H] [H] [H]

_October 16__th_

_12:05 a.m._

Sarah finished the email and sent it off, smiling a little. Laynie had scored a major coup, selling footage of an EF3 tornado hitting a grain elevator in Iowa to the Associated Press; the money they'd earned would help defray quite a few of STR's expenses and best of all, no one got hurt, either on the team or at the elevator. _Wish everything could turn out so well, _she thought, and glanced at the doorway as Greg came in. He'd obviously been asleep and was still in his tee and old sweats, his hair sticking up in the back.

"Need to talk," he said, shutting the door behind him. Sarah reclined a bit and put her arms behind her head.

"Okay," she said. Greg dropped into his Eames chair. He looked troubled and yet there was a fugitive humor lurking in the depths of his gaze.

"Got a call from Wilson," he said, picking up a pen and turning it over his fingers. "He was drunk."

"Buzzed or honest-to-god drunk?"

"Honest-to-god." Greg tossed the pen to the desktop. "Almost to blackout level."

"Ah." Sarah brought her arms down, a distant sadness stealing through her. "Sam left him."

"Yeah." He fidgeted for a few moments. "He asked me to come back."

"I'm not surprised." Sarah watched him, curious as to his reaction. "What did you say?"

"I told him the truth." Greg looked down at the blotter. "Told him he wasn't a friend, that asking me to go back to what things were like before Mayfield was stupid."

"Okay. What was his reaction?"

"He puked in the bed," Greg said. Sarah winced.

"Glad I won't be there when he decides he has to replace the mattress while he's enduring an epic hangover." At Greg's knowing snicker she smiled. "Will you call him when he's sobered up?"

"Not a good idea."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "Besides the whole not being friends thing."

"Once he's sober he'll blame me for what happened with Sam," Greg said. "Went through that already with Amber and all the exes after Sam. Now I'll get stuck with her too."

"You're only totin' that barge if you want to do it," Sarah said. "Jim creates drama for his own reasons, and you're a handy way for him to avoid responsibility."

"After Amber was killed he told me he didn't blame me for her death, but I knew he was lying." Greg looked away. "He lies like some people breathe."

Sarah folded her hands across her middle. "Jim does what he thinks he needs to do to keep people liking him," she said. "He has the ability to be what you need him to be, like a chameleon changing colors. The problem is that in order to do so, he has to lie with every other breath to propel the illusion forward. He also gives up a substantial chunk of his own free will in the process. That creates resentment and anger. He can't acknowledge either of those emotions because they'll destroy everything he's worked so hard to create. So he farms them out to other people."

"I messed with his marriages," Greg said.

"I'm sure you did. The fact still stands that if Jim had wanted his relationships to succeed, they would have done so even with interference from you. He's strong enough to go up against just about anyone, as you well know." She studied Greg for a moment. "Don't take on more than your fair share of responsibility for what happened."

"What, you're not absolving me?" He gave her an innocent look.

"That isn't my job," she said. "It's up to you to assess your own actions. You can talk to me about them if you want to and I can help you see things more clearly, but everything else is your choice." She laughed softly when Greg sighed in apparent exasperation. "This is information I think you have already, but I'll say it anyway just to make things clear: Jim holds the whip hand in almost all his relationships except his parents probably, and that includes your friendship. It's how he tries to deal with the random craziness life likes to throw our way, by controlling the ever-loving hell out of it. For Jim, hell is chaos."

"Why'd he get falling-down drunk then?"

"All that control exacts a price," Sarah said. "When some particularly prized piece of micro-management goes bust, he loses it for a little while. It makes regaining order that much sweeter, I guess." She stretched a little. "And it gives him his next target—in this case, you."

"I did say earlier we're not friends," Greg said.

"Are you sure?" Sarah tilted her head. "If you didn't care about him I don't think you would have taken his call, or made sure he didn't aspirate a puddle of vomit. He knows it too, or he wouldn't be bothering with you still after you left."

"I told him off. Not—not the usual stuff, I mean . . . I told him the truth. What . . . what I was feeling, about what he did." Greg looked down, but not before Sarah caught a flash of fear in his eyes. "Real friends don't do that."

_Go gently,_ she thought. _Lead with a light touch on the rein or you'll spook him. _"You think Laynie and I don't end up head to head sometimes? Roz and I had a huge fight once, she didn't talk to me for a week. And you and I have had some good battles." She shook her head. "Friends get mad at each other sometimes, it's inevitable. Either they get over it and continue on, or they don't. If you're afraid to tell Wilson the truth when he needs to hear it, then your friendship really is over."

"I've told him the truth from the beginning," Greg said. "But this was different."

"Because you showed him how much he hurt you too," Sarah said softly.

"You're too damn good at this," Greg said after a time. "No wonder you're unemployed."

"Hey, I got a smart Norwegian chickybabe scientist in Iowa makin' money for me hand over fist. Why bother with a job?" She grinned at Greg's snort of amusement.

"Nice work if you can get it," he said as he stood, looking a bit more relaxed now than when he first came in. "We still have company coming tomorrow?"

Sarah's amusement faded, even as she noted Greg's 'we' with quiet satisfaction. "Yes. Gordon should be here around noon."

Greg didn't reply right away. "It's that bad with Gunney," he said finally.

"He needs some help, yes," Sarah said.

"What about you?" He wouldn't look at her. "You okay?"

"I'm hangin' in there." She sat up. "I'm worried about Gene but I think the Prof will help him." She leaned forward. "We'll be at capacity for a little while."

Greg nodded. "As long as my girlfriend's the only one who uses my bathroom and no one else tries to shrink my head, fine by me." He sent her one quick piercing stare. "Don't stay up all night trying to take care of everyone in a ten mile radius or I'll start calling you Wilson, _Mom_."

Sarah laughed and reached out to shut down her computer. "Okay, good advice. I'll take it. See you later on today, son."


	6. Chapter 6

_**(A/N: House does not make an appearance in this chapter but he'll return in the next installment, never fear. **_

_**Doctor Gordon Wyatt is a character from the American tv series Bones. He is played by the amazingly talented Stephen Fry. 'Gordon Gordon' is a favorite character (whom I don't own, more's the pity) and I just couldn't resist having him pay a visit to my fic.**_

_**Gordon's line about baseball and cricket was actually a comment made by MissBates in a review. I liked it so much I just had to use it. -B)  
**_

_October 16__th_

_12 p.m._

Sarah was waiting on the front porch when the rental car pulled up. _Always punctual,_ she thought, watching a tall figure emerge from the driver's side. She studied her visitor as he took a good-sized traveling bag from the back seat, shut the door and came toward her, beaming. _He's lost weight. He looks younger . . . happier_._ Leaving psychiatry to become a chef was a good decision, then. Lance seemed to think it was a waste, but now I can see it was the right thing for him to do. _"Doctor Wyatt," she said aloud.

"Sarah my dear . . ." he said, and dropped his bag on the porch as she came forward to give him a hug. His arms went around her, drawing her in.

_Safe harbor, _Sarah thought, and fought an urge to bury her face in his sweater and blubber like a five-year-old. "Oh, it's so wonderful to see you!"

"Likewise," he said. "My goodness, are things so dire that you feel you must use formal titles?"

"Sorry," Sarah said, embarrassed. She started to move away but he kept her where she was, his embrace gentle but firm.

"Now now, no need for apology," he said. "You've nothing for which to be sorry, but I won't have you calling me 'Doctor Wyatt' when you've used my first name for some time now, it's just not on." The compassion in his words made tears come to Sarah's eyes. She blinked them away.

"Thanks," she said. "I—I hope you're hungry, lunch is almost ready."

"Ah, still feeding people up, are you? Well, I won't say you nay. They gave us nothing even vaguely resembling food on that puddle hopper they call a plane."

Sarah smiled a little. _It's like old times, listening to him. _"We can make up for that. And there's proper tea, too."

"Oh, thank god!" Gordon set her at arm's length, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders as he smiled down at her. "Yorkshire Gold, do I dare to hope?"

"Of course," she said. "Milk and sugar as well. Come on, let's get you settled in first." On impulse she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, and took comfort in his one-armed embrace as he retrieved his bag and went inside with her. He stopped short just inside the door however, his eyes widening.

"Oh my," he said in the mildest of tones. He moved into the living room, letting her go to do a slow turn. "So you finally got your treehouse after all, Sarah Jane. Well done, well done. This is amazing!"

"Thanks." Gene stood in the office doorway, arms folded as he leaned against the jamb. Sarah's evanescent good mood vanished. She watched as her husband came forward to shake the other man's hand.

"Eugene," Gordon was saying, "you and Sarah should be proud of your efforts, very proud. You've made this a home in the best of ways, and that's no mean feat."

Gene relaxed a little. "Thanks, Prof," he said. "Long time no see."

"Agreed. I do wish the circumstances were different regarding our meeting now. But still, we take our opportunities where we find them, eh?" Gordon gave Gene a shrewd look, his eyes twinkling with good humor. "And now, how about some luncheon? As you Americans say, my stomach is talking to me."

Sarah had made a good-sized pot pie from the remains of the previous evening's roast chicken, vegetables and gravy, remembering her teacher's amusement at eating biscuits that for him were not biscuits at all. It was accompanied by baked apples served with thin wedges of sharp cheese or cream. She ate another bite of pie, watching Gordon and Roz size each other up, Roz's initial wariness fading under the spell of Gordon's amiable nature. Gene said almost nothing throughout the meal, his own expression impassive. Sarah knew he was having difficulty with the necessity of therapy, though he had agreed to it without argument. _Prof will have his hands full, _she thought, and looked up to find Gordon's gaze on her, his blue eyes filled with speculation.

"I understand we're missing a member of the company," he said.

"Doctor House," Sarah said. "He's working this afternoon, but he'll join us in time for supper."

"Packed to the rafters, I see," Gordon said softly. Sarah glanced at Gene, who looked away.

""Yes," she said simply. That earned her a chuckle.

"Admirably direct, as always. Well, if anyone's capable of administering the duties of a busy household you're the proper candidate, Sarah. I never had to worry about the department's lab paperwork with you in charge." Gordon sat back. "An excellent nosh, by the way. The chicken was infused with rosemary and garlic, was it not?"

After lunch was cleared from the table, Gene and Gordon disappeared into the office behind a closed door. Sarah took herself off to the mudroom, where she put a load of clothes in the washer and went out to work in the garden. She had just finished pulling the last of the frost-bitten plants from the squash hills when Roz joined her.

"I like Doctor Wyatt," she said as she perched in the old windsor chair. "He's sweet."

"He can be, yes," Sarah said, piling vines to the side for composting. "He's also very observant. There isn't much that gets by him."

"Is that a warning?" Roz asked. Sarah was startled into a chuckle.

"No," she said. "He's just good at what he does—or used to do, anyway. Don't be surprised if you find yourself being given some great advice that's well worth taking. He does it to me all the time."

Roz flashed a grin at her. Sarah realized it was the first time in quite a while that she'd seen the younger woman look something close to light-hearted. "Nice to know psychologists aren't immune to their own methods."

"Are you kidding? We're the most neurotic people on the planet. We need help more than anyone else most of the time." Sarah turned back to her work. "If you want someone to talk with, Gordon's a good choice. I'm sure he'd agree if you ask him."

"He's here to help Gene, not me," Roz said. "I'm doing okay."

Sarah nodded. "Glad to hear it." She said nothing more, waiting.

"Is it . . ." Roz hesitated. "Shouldn't I be freaking out more than I am? You know, emotional trauma making me lash out at people or take to drinking or something?"

"Do you feel like doing that?"

"No, not really. I get frustrated with having only one working hand right now." Roz sighed. "At night it can be hard to get to sleep. I relive the accident and it scares me . . . but when it happened I wasn't scared. It was like time slowed down and I could feel what was going on, but I was . . . outside of my body somehow." She was silent a moment. "I'm more worried about how this is going to affect my ability to do everyday things. And my work."

"You're going to have a heavy-duty scar too," Sarah said, treading with care now.

"Yeah, I know." Roz sounded resigned.

"I can make you some comfrey leaf salve to reduce the scarring. Mederma would work too, if you want to try it." Sarah leaned on the handle of her pitchfork. "It's okay to feel sad or upset about this."

"I don't feel sad, I feel like a wuss," Roz said. Now her words were bitter. "I see Greg living with what happened to him every day and he doesn't complain. I have one bad day when he's had hundreds."

"You're having bad days? Actually that's good to know. I haven't heard you complain at all," Sarah said. "In fact it's kinda worried me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it's okay for you to be upset or show that you're hurting, if that's how you feel. Sis, you're not going to get kicked out of the house for being cranky or whiny or having a bad pain day. Greg might give you a hard time, but it's just his way of showing he's worried about you."

You _want_ me to complain?" Roz said in obvious surprise.

"I want you to feel what you feel. You're recovering from a traumatic experience. Jack told me you coded in the ambulance. I remember what it was like to end up in the ER with bad injuries." Fragments of memories, of old pain and fear flashed through Sarah's mind as she spoke. "You'll have memories, you'll have bad days. It's all right, that's what I'm saying. You don't have to edit yourself for me or anyone else. Okay?"

"So this is official permission to throw hissy fits?" Roz asked, brows raised. "Poppi isn't going to like the sound of that. He's very stiff upper lip about this kind of stuff."

Sarah couldn't help but smile. "You can act like a spoiled brat if you want to but you aren't one anyway, so I'm not worried. As for Lou, I'd expect someone his age to believe in the philosophy of enduring in silence. That doesn't mean you have to do the same."

"Okay," Roz said, her skepticism plain. "You can explain it to him when he gets on me for being a weenie."

"Happy to," Sarah said, and meant it. "When's he coming over, anyway?"

"We were going to ask when would be a good night, but with so many people in the house maybe it would be better for me to go to his place instead."

"We've got room for one more at the table," Sarah said. "Lou is always welcome here and so are you, without question." She moved to Roz and put a hand on the younger woman's good shoulder. "Never doubt that for a moment."

[H] [H] [H]

"Now then, Eugene—"

"Just call me Gene. Only my dad calls me Eugene."

Gordon nodded. "Just so. Gene, I only have one question. Where we go from here depends on your answer, so I hope you'll be truthful with me."

Gene folded his arms. "Shoot."

"Hmm . . . interesting metaphor. Yes, all right," Gordon said when Gene sent him a look. He sounded apologetic, but his gaze was keen. "Hazard of my prior occupation, I'm afraid, scrutinizing verbiage. At any rate, here it is: do you want to work with me?"

Gene didn't answer right away. "What you're really asking is if Sarah coerced me into this," he said slowly.

"No, not at all, though that's a very astute observation and under other circumstances, might be fairly accurate. What I'm really asking is, do you want to work with me?" Gordon spoke in a cool, direct way that held no annoyance but left Gene in little doubt that he meant what he said.

"Yes and no," Gene said. "Yes, I know I need to work with you. No, I don't want to do this, but I don't think that really matters at this point."

"My dear boy, of course it matters! Forcing yourself to think there's only one answer here is just as bad as if Sarah _had_ delivered an ultimatum." Gordon leaned forward. "Your use of the word 'coercion' is more than mere coincidence, isn't it?"

Gene looked at the floor and said nothing.

"I see. Well then, why don't you take twenty-four hours, ruminate on things? You can give me an answer, yea or nay, at the end of that time and I'll be happy to abide by your decision." Gordon got to his feet.

"You don't understand," Gene said. "Yes, I feel coerced, but it's . . . it's not a bad thing. I don't want . . ." He turned his gaze back to the other man. "A part of me doesn't want to face what's going on, what's happened since I went back to Port-au-Prince. But a slightly bigger part of me does want to face it. So I'm willing to let that bigger part win out and push me into getting some help."

"I see." Gordon sat down slowly. "Very well then, but what sort of a split are we speaking of here? Fifty-one/forty-nine, or something a bit more substantial?"

Gene thought about it. "More like fifty-three/forty-seven." He tried to put a humorous spin on his reply but it was too close to the truth.

"Ah." Gordon nodded. "Slight indeed, but enough to work with, I believe."

"So how do we do this?" Gene asked. "Traditional therapy, or something different?"

"Well, unfortunately I have only a limited amount of time to spend in this lovely home of yours, so it's quite likely any approach we use will of necessity be placed on the intensive side of the balance, so to speak," Gordon said. "Leave it to me, I'll find a way. In that spirit I say we consider proceedings already begun, do you agree?"

Gene stopped himself from shrugging his shoulders like a sullen teenager. "All right."

Gordon beamed at him. "Excellent! And now I believe Sarah mentioned you're planning to watch a baseball game. Would you mind terribly if I joined you? It's been a long-cherished desire of mine to sit with an American while they participate in the ritual of the nine innings. I would especially appreciate having someone explain how the rules are applied."

"Sure," Gene replied without much enthusiasm. "Roz will be with us, she's rooting for the Giants."

"The Giants . . . what an evocative name! You Americans have such vivid imaginations. Tigers, Red Socks, Cardinals, Braves . . . delightful." Gordon stood once more. "Shall we go?" As Gene passed him he said quietly, "I know it doesn't seem so now, but I'll do my level best to help you work things out, as you will see."

An hour later Gene sat watching the game with Roz and Gordon, beer in hand and feeling out of place.

"It's a bit like cricket for the impatient, isn't it?" Gordon observed after the first inning was completed. "All that sporadic running around . . . they do seem to be a fidgety lot too, don't they? Pulling on caps, digging their toes into the dirt . . ."

"Those are signals," Roz said. "The pitcher and catcher are telling each other what pitch to use, or the batter is signaling to the coach or the first baseman whether he's going to walk or bunt or try for a homer."

"Bunt? What an odd word." Gordon tilted his head. "I do hope a homer isn't followed by the surname Simpson."

Roz laughed. "Every club has a set of signals that's supposed to be secret, but whether that's actually true is up for debate."

"Ah, subterfuge!" Gordon rubbed his hands together. "Leave it to you Yanks to take a perfectly polite game and turn it into a drama full of theft, barneys and sleight of hand."

"Rhubarbs, not barneys," Roz said, smiling.

Gene half-listened as they laughed and joked back and forth. He felt distanced from them, as if there was an inch-thick sheet of clear, impenetrable glass between him and everything else.

_That's the way it should be,_ a familiar, chill voice deep in his numb center murmured. _There's no point in joining in, no point in doing anything. All that will happen is someone hurting you. Everyone hurts you. Better to be by yourself. _

He hated that cold whisper; the last time it had been this strong, his old man had been wailing on Mom on a daily basis and drinking to the blackout stage and he'd been helpless to stop any of it. Those memories hid in a freezing fog that seemed to be creeping through him a fraction of an inch at a time, and he was as powerless against the paralysis as he had been to put an end to his father's violence.

"Gene?" Roz gave him an inquiring look. "Are you okay?"

_No_, he thought in a kind of numb despair. _I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. _"Sorry . . . just thinking."

"Roz was inquiring as to whether or not the pitchers on either team are evenly matched," Gordon said. His tone was mild. Gene looked away.

"The Giants have the edge," he said. "They can use it to psych the opposition."

The conversation resumed without him. He sat in his self-imposed prison, watching life continue on, unable to stay or go, caught between worlds.

**_Many thanks for reading, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: I am deeply indebted to mmgage and her husband for their immense help and expertise with this chapter. Many thanks for helping me get the details right; any mistakes I've made are mine and not theirs. Check out their FaceBook page: _**.com/pages/East-Central-Indiana-Paranormal-Investigators/195273840844

**_A very happy Samhain to my fellow pagans, and a Happy Halloween to all! Hope you enjoy this chapter in the spirit of the season-B)  
_**

_October 20th_

_6 p.m._

"We can't find anyone else. You're going to have to help out with the investigation."

Greg glares at Roz. "No way. No way in flaming hell."

"Take it or leave it. If you don't make up the third member of the team, we can't do a proper job." Roz calls his bluff, something of a surprise. Greg really hadn't expected this turn of events.

"It's a damn broom closet, for god's sake!" he growls. "You can't fit more than one person in there at a time, why the hell do you want to cram three—"

"One person to run the monitor and keep an eye on things at base, one person in the hallway, one person in the office after everything's been set up." Roz folds her arms, careful to keep the injured one on top. "Hey, you came to me asking for us to scope things out. It's no skin off my nose if we don't do it."

Greg recognizes the opening bid of a shrewd and canny bargainer. He pushes away his amusement. "Oh, bullshit. You'll take on any case just to pump your stats."

"Says you," Roz counters. Her green eyes gleam. "Do you have any idea how much an investigation costs in fresh batteries and tapes alone? If you hadn't noticed, my last name isn't Rockefeller."

"And mine isn't Credulous-Idiot," Greg snaps. "Why don't you ask Sarah?"

"I'm asking you." She narrows her gaze. "What's the matter? Afraid you might see or hear something you can't explain?"

"Highly unlikely. I won't discover-" Too late he sees the trap she's laid. He wags a finger at her. "Clever minx. I haven't agreed to anything."

"See you at your office at eight for an equipment tutorial," Roz says, triumphant in her victory. "Don't even think of backing out." She saunters past him, nose in the air. As she walks by he resists the urge to lean in and steal a kiss.

"Well well," a voice says from the dining room. It's the Brit, sounding amused. "The skeptic forced to put up or shut up. That should be an interesting turn of events."

Greg is of two minds about Gordon. He is far too observant, far too good at putting two and two together and getting the big bang theory; on the other hand, he's funny as hell and thoroughly grounded in reality, a refreshing change of attitude from most shrinks (Sarah excepted). "Go back to your pots and pans, Gordon Ramsay."

"Ah, savaged yet again by that rapier wit," the Brit says, still much too cheerful. "And still, since we're stranded together here like commuters on a broken-down train, why we shouldn't get to know each other a little better? Seems a fine idea to me, don't you agree?"

"No," Greg says, and is stymied in his attempt at escape by the entrance of Sarah.

"I hear you're joining the investigation tonight," she says, smiling. He inspects her expression for mockery or ridicule. Finding none, he says grudgingly

"She tricked me into it."

"Of course," Sarah says in a dry tone. "You're such an easy mark."

"No, really," he protests. "Just because you wouldn't help out, now I'm stuck traipsing around with a camera in hand looking for spooks."

"Get over it," Sarah says, unconcerned. "You'll have a great time, take my word for it."

"Says you," he mutters. If word of this ever gets back to Princeton-Plainsboro—and stranger things have happened, he's here to testify to that truth—his reputation as supreme skeptic will be shattered beyond any repair.

"Just go and have a good time. Do what Roz tells you to and keep an open mind. Just not so open your brains fall out," Sarah says, and flashes him that grin that tells him they are kindred spirits in this matter.

_10:15 p.m._

"This is insane. I'm not going to ask these questions," Greg said again. Roz pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and struggled to contain her impatience.

"It's standard procedure. _If_—and I do mean _if_-someone wants to communicate, isn't it a good idea to give them a chance to speak to us?"

"You're already presuming there's a possibility for the existence of a disembodied intelligence to give you answers." Greg shook his head. "That's setting up expectations that your mind will try to fulfill."

"If no one's there, no one will answer," Roz said. "Why not take a chance?"

"Because it's stupid," Greg said, obviously annoyed.

"Fine." Roz gave up. "Then you man the base and I'll do the office." She took the digital audio recorder out of his grasp and tucked it into her right hand, snagged the camcorder and nodded at the chair placed in front of a makeshift desk with a monitor. "Easy peasy. Just keep an eye on the screen, switch out tapes on the stationary hi-8 camera when I ask you to and have the batteries and extra tapes handy. We tend to go through a lot of them, especially if the site is active."

"Especially if the site is active," Greg said under his breath in a mocking falsetto. Roz glared at him.

"You're the one who wanted this. If you've changed your mind, I'll be happy to pack up and go home. Your choice."

"I was just kidding. Jeez, you're touchy," Greg grumbled. "You're positive you aren't on the rag?"

"Oh, shut up," Roz said. "We need to do EMF and temperature sweeps of the hall and the office to get baseline readings. You checked to see if there are any patients in the main ward or anyone working late, right?" She addressed the question to Tony, who stood on the sidelines with an impassive expression.

"Yeah. No patients, no one in any of the other offices." He held up both instruments. "I'll take care of that now. Meanwhile, why don't you two keep on arguing? You're pretty good at it. If I didn't know better I'd swear you were married." He took off before Roz could say anything, but not before she caught a glimpse of a grin.

"Smartass," she muttered.

"You just can't stand a taste of your own medicine," Greg said. Roz set down the voice recorder with care, then flipped him the bird. It hurt a little, but it was worth it to make him laugh.

_11:23 p.m._

"Can you tell me your name please?"

Roz is sitting in the middle of his office. Greg watches her on the monitor. She is quiet, her tone respectful. She has examined every inch of the small space with camcorder in hand, methodical, thorough, steady, asking questions the entire time. An hour ago there was a brief but impressive spike in the EM field and the voice recorder's batteries failed, but nothing since then. Greg sips his Coke and switches his attention to Tony and the stationary camera in the hallway. Nothing has happened there at all; the young guy is prowling the corridor with a digital camera, taking pictures now and then.

"Are you the one who pulled out the files and took things?" Roz does a slow sweep of the space around her with the camcorder. "You can talk into the little box in my right hand—" She stops, glances at her watch. "Ten twenty-nine, Greg's office. Something just tugged on my hair," she whispers into the voice recorder. Greg rolls his eyes. He keys the walkie-talkie.

"Mwuaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaa," he intones, giving her his best evil chortle. Roz sets down the recorder and snatches up the walkie-talkie.

"Knock it off," she snaps. "This is serious whether you want to believe it is or not."

"Are you troubled by strange noises in the middle of the night? Do you experience feelings of dread in your basement or attic?" Greg says.

"Dammit Greg—"

"Have you or any of your family ever seen a spook, spectre or ghost?" He can hear Tony snorting with laughter in the corridor. "If the answer is yes, then don't wait another minute—"

"Greg, shut UP!" Roz is trying hard not to break, but losing the battle.

"—pick up your phone and call the professionals . . . Upstate New York Paranormal Researchers. Our courteous and efficient staff is on call twenty-four hours a day to serve all your supernatural elimination needs."

"We're ready to believe you!" Tony says from the corridor.

"You guys," Roz groans, and picks up the digital audio. "Personal conversation with two keyed mikes," she says into the recorder with weary resignation. "If anyone's trying to communicate through all this noise, my apologies."

"Doesn't look to me like we'll get much activity tonight," Tony says. "I got bubkes out here. No fluctuations at all, steady as a rock. Digital's not showing anything either."

"It's early yet," Roz says. "Remember we've had change of shift going on for the last hour or so. Be sure to note it in the log and on the recorders. We'll probably find some interference from people coming and going, maybe a cell phone or two."

"The Stay-Puft marshmallow man shows up, I'm breakin' out the toasting sticks," Greg says. "Mwuaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaa!"

Roz bows her head and sighs.

_October 21st_

_12:52 a.m._

"I brought something for you to move, to show me you're here." Roz held up a stuffed animal—a little sheep with a woolly coat. "I'm going to put it on the floor in front of me. If you'd like to take it, go ahead." She put the toy a couple of feet away, drew a circle around it in chalk for reference and eased back, keeping the camcorder moving in an even sweep across the area. She was tired now, and her arm was hurting; soon she'd have to trade with Tony or take a half-hour cat nap, as she was beginning to get distracted by the need for rest combined with the pain. "Would you rather have something—"

Something tugged on her hair, exactly as it had occurred earlier in the evening. It felt playful, almost teasing. She froze, then slowly turned her head from side to side, searching for anything at her collar or shoulders that could snag a strand. She'd made sure not to wear jewelry of any kind including necklaces or earrings, and her crewneck tee shirt had a simple ribbed opening with no tags.

"Twelve fifty-four, Greg's office," she said into the recorder. "Another tug on my hair."

"You're almost asleep," Greg said over the walkie-talkie. "You're imagining things."

Roz ignored him. "Do it again, please," she said, and jumped when there was a second yank, a bit more forceful this time but not enough to cause any discomfort. "That was a good one," she said into the recorder. "Thanks. Can you tug on something else? My clothes?" She set down the digital audio and picked up the walkie-talkie. "Greg, can you still see me on the stationary camera?" she asked. She'd moved a time or two since they'd initially set up the IR camera.

"Yes," Greg said. "You're in full view. Too bad you're not naked."

Roz resisted rolling her eyes. "Thanks," she said dryly, and gasped as a ripple of sensation ran down her injured arm. It was as if a small finger had trailed over her bandages.

"What is it?" Greg asked, his tone sharp.

"Some kind of—of touch on my arm," Roz said. "Like someone's fingertip . . ." She stopped as a chill swept over her. She set the camcorder on the desk so that it faced her and picked up the temperature gauge, pointed it at herself. Instead of rising as she'd expected the number fell, slow and steady. Seventy-two . . . seventy-one . . . seventy . . . She watched in disbelief as it took a rapid plunge straight to sixty and falling even lower. Cold swept through her and she tried to blow out a breath, convinced it would be seen as fog in that bitter chill. A loud noise behind her made her jump.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Greg said. He sounded shocked and a little excited. Roz had just enough time to smile at his reactionwhen she sensed movement above and behind her. A moment later a file careened past her to hit the floor, papers scattering everywhere.

"Did you catch that?" Roz snatched up the camcorder and cursed when her damaged arm spasmed. She'd used her right hand without thinking. "_Shit!_ Make sure you're getting this, dammit!"

"What the hell's going on?" Tony said from the corridor.

"Keep taking pictures and get in here!" Roz said, struggling to stay calm. She switched the camcorder to her left hand and began recording, felt another tug on her hair and heard something, some sort of liquid gurgle or murmur, in her right ear. _Please don't let me wake up and find out this was a dream,_ she thought as Tony entered the office, firing off a barrage of shots. The chill disappeared as if it had never been. She watched the numbers on the temperature gauge begin to climb and shivered. The office was silent except for the sound of her breathing and the steady click and flash of the camera.

"Well," Tony said after a few minutes, "whatever was going on in here, it isn't now."

Roz let go a held breath and switched off the camcorder. "Wow," she said, and found she was shaking.

"Yeah." Tony sat on the edge of the desk. He looked a little scared but exhilarated too.

"That's enough," Greg said. He sounded almost angry. "You need to get out of there. Let Tony take your place for a while."

"Yeah," Roz said, and wiped a strand of hair out of her face. "Yeah, okay."

_3:20 a.m._

Roz stirs a little and then sits up, blinking. She's been taking a power nap on the cot that seems to be part of the standard equipment for the group. In the dim light she still looks tired but a little better than before. Greg sits back and extends his Coke.

"Take your meds," he says. Roz shakes her head but accepts the can anyway. She has a sip, then another, and gives it back to him.

"Thanks. Not till after the investigation is done," she says.

"Pain is just as mind-altering an influence as drugs," he says, annoyed at her stubbornness.

"I'm not hurting that much," she says quietly. "Anyway, I'd rather be a little achy and alert than medicated with my reaction time slowed down."

"I don't know," he says. "You duck pretty fast."

Roz chuckles as she gets to her feet, cradling her bandaged arm. "Any activity?" she asks, coming over to stand by him.

"Not the kind I'd like," he says in a lascivious tone, slipping a hand around the sweet little curve of her asscheek.

"Cut it out," Roz says, her exasperation plain. She steps away. "Be serious, Greg."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "We'll look at the video and find out there's a natural explanation for everything that's happened tonight."

"Maybe we will, maybe we won't," she says. "But we won't find any more evidence if we're in here fooling around. We're not done investigating yet." Her expression softens. "Save it for later, okay?"

It's the first time in several weeks that she's expressed an overt desire to be with him. He feels unaccountably cheered by this realization. "Yeah, I guess."

She comes closer and drops a kiss on the top of his head, right on his bald spot. "Good."

"Do you have to remind me I'm losing hair by the minute?" he bitches, just to make her laugh. He's successful and even gets another kiss out of it, this time on his temple.

"Doesn't matter," she says. He knows she means it, and allows himself to enjoy the warmth it generates deep inside.

_6:15 a.m._

"Okay, let's pack up." Roz looked at the potential evidence waiting to be reviewed and felt a sense of weary satisfaction.

It didn't take long to get the office cleared of equipment. They were winding up the last of the DVR cabling when Doctor Wirth appeared.

"Stop by the lounge before you go," she said, smiling a little. "I'd like to hear about how your night went, if you're not too tired. Breakfast is on me."

There was fresh coffee, a box of doughnuts and sausage and biscuit sandwiches. "This is way above and beyond the call," Roz said as she stirred half and half into her cup. "Thanks, Doc."

"We're gonna have to investigate here more often," Tony said, and snagged a coconut maple doughnut.

Soon enough they were congregated around the main table, describing the events of the night. Greg said little or nothing, but Roz sensed his skepticism had not so much been replaced but perhaps changed a bit, altered by what he'd seen and heard.

"So a file came flying at you?" Wirth sipped her coffee.

"A file fell past me to the floor," Roz said. "I have no idea if it was deliberately aimed at me because I don't know if anything or anyone actually threw it." She caught Greg's glance and saw grudging approval in his eyes before he looked away. "It was right after I offered the toy . . ." She faltered to a stop. _Oh my god,_ she thought. A surge of excitement shot through her.

"What is it?" Tony asked around a mouthful of sausage biscuit.

"Where's the sheep?" Roz set aside her cup and got to her feet. "I didn't put it back in the equipment box. Did anyone else pick it up?"

Tony shook his head. "Nope."

"No big deal," Greg said, his tone dismissive. "You just left it behind."

"Okay. I'll go check just in case," Roz said. "Back shortly."

Actually she returned in under two minutes. "We need the full-spectrum video camera and voice recorders," she said, and steadied her voice when she heard it shake. "The EMF detectors and the thermometer too. Hurry!"

"Did you find the toy?" Tony asked.

"Get the stuff on the double!" Roz snapped, and took off at a run for the truck.

At the door of the office everyone simply stopped in their tracks. Roz lifted the full-spectrum camera and began to pan across the room, right to left, then up and down.

"Six thirty-one a.m.," she said out loud. Her hands were trembling. "We left the office area for approximately twenty minutes, with no stationary camera or anyone watching. On our return, this is what we found."

Files were scattered everywhere, with a couple of textbooks pulled out and apparently dumped on the floor as an afterthought. In the middle of Greg's desk sat two balls, placed a few inches apart on the blotter. His desk chair had been turned upside-down but was otherwise undamaged.

"This is exactly what's been happening," Greg said. Tony began to take pictures, then stopped.

"Battery's dead," he said, his voice terse. "I just replaced it."

"Greg, get a fresh battery," Roz said, and was surprised to see him limp off at high speed to do just that. Within two minutes the new battery was drained as well. Roz handed the camera to Greg.

"Point it at the middle of the room where the files are," she said, and scurried to the equipment chest to get a second voice recorder.

"This battery's draining fast too," Greg said. He sounded incredulous. "What the hell?"

"Dammit!" Roz turned on the recorder. "If you would like to say something, please speak into this device," she said, trying hard to stay steady and polite. "Can you tell us if you had anything to do with the files and books being thrown to the floor and the batteries being drained?"

She managed another half-dozen questions before the first voice recorder died. Thirty seconds later the full-spectrum camera joined it, and a minute later, the backup digital audio. To her astonishment, even the EMF detector succumbed—something she had never seen happen before. It was more disturbing than she wanted to admit.

"I'm feeling really cold," Tony said. "Like there's a draft across my back or something."

"Yeah . . ." Roz faltered to a stop. That light-as-air touch had returned, skimming the length of her forearm to the bulky dressing on her damaged finger. For one moment she had an impression of sorrow, a feeling she somehow knew was completely outside her own mind—_sadness for me,_ she thought in astonishment—and then it was gone.

Within five minutes all batteries were at full charge and the room was back to baseline temperature.

_8 a.m. _

"We didn't find the sheep," Roz is saying to Sarah. They are all sitting around the dining room table with the remains of Doctor Wirth's breakfast, supplemented by fresh coffee. "I almost took that office apart looking for it. It isn't in the truck or any of the equipment boxes either."

"It has to be in there somewhere," Greg says. "It's wedged in the closet or underneath something."

"That's possible," Roz says, surprising him once more with her willingness to consider all options. "It would be a good idea to search again to make sure I didn't miss it."

"I'll get right on that," he says, and yawns.

"Take a nap first," Sarah says. "You'll manage another one at work I'm sure, but an hour or two in your own bed couldn't hurt."

"All alone?" He gives Roz his best innocent look. She rolls her eyes, but her heart isn't in it.

"No way. I've got evidence to review."

"Not right now you don't," Sarah says. "Bed for you too."

"See?" Greg spreads his hands. "I sleep better with company."

"In that case I'll send Hellboy down, he's a total snuggle bunny," Roz says, her tone dry.

"Nobody ever lets me have any fun," he mutters.

"And on that note I'm outta here." Tony puts down his cup, stands up and takes his jacket from the back of the chair. "Let me know when you're ready to review,_ 'bina_."

"I will. See you later." Roz sits back in her chair. She is obviously exhausted but excited too. Greg is surprised to find he shares her feelings to some extent.

"Get some rest," Sarah is saying. "I'll take care of cleaning up."

Half an hour later he's in bed and is almost asleep when he feels something, a lump of some kind, down by his feet. "Get off," he grumbles, and pushes at it with his foot, thinking it's the damn cat. To his surprise he finds that whatever it is, it's not under the blankets but on top. Upon inspection he finds a small stuffed woolly sheep tucked under the comforter. He stares at it, turning it over in his hands. _How the hell did it get here? Someone must have put it in my jacket pocket . . . but it's big enough for me to have noticed it. And how did it get under the quilt?_

"Well, at least it isn't a damn horse's head," he says aloud after a few minutes of futile differential. He sets the little toy on his nightstand and turns his back, eyes closed as he wills sleep to come.

_8:30 p.m._

Everyone was congregated at the dining room table, where Roz had requested the equipment be set up. They advanced the video to the moment when all hell had broken loose.

"It could be the forced-air heater coming on," Sarah said.

Roz ran the video back to the moment of the noise, about five seconds before the file folder came hurtling down just past her head. "It was seventy-two degrees baseline in the office."

"The thermostat in the office could be messed up," Tony said. He studied the video frame, his head tilted to one side. "You might ask Diane to have someone check the zones."

"Yeah, because she's got a money jar with an endless supply of thousand-dollar bills," Greg said with considerable sarcasm. Roz winced, but Tony just gave him a wry look.

"Has it been too hot or cold that you've noticed?" Sarah asked. Greg shook his head.

"I haven't been in there enough lately to notice any problems. But the duct is right above the folders. If it came on forcefully enough, it could send them flying. That could also explain the noise you heard right before things started happening."

"That's a possibility," Roz said. She paused. "I don't know if the a/c's been switched out to heating for the winter yet, but I'll make sure to ask."

"So what about the books?" Sarah wanted to know. "Those are fairly heavy reference texts. How did they get on the floor?"

"It's possible the abrupt change in temperature—" Greg began, then shook his head. "I'm still not convinced someone didn't come along and stage all of this for our benefit."

Roz felt her cheeks grow warm. "I'm a suspect then," she said quietly.

"You wouldn't do that," Tony said. This time he sent Greg a challenging stare.

"I was thinking more of the nurses first," Greg said. He watched Roz closely. "They've got it in for me because I haven't memorized their names yet, which is pointless because all nurses are interchangeable. Sort of like cogs in some big machine."

"I can see why you're so popular," Sarah said, her tone dry. "Why don't you suspect Roz?"

Greg shifted his gaze away from Roz. "Who says I don't?"

"I do," Sarah said. "Otherwise you would have accused her first thing."

"Maybe I'm biding my time, waiting to expose her as a fraud," Greg said. Roz felt a little sting of hurt but no surprise. She'd expected this attitude.

"Hey," Tony says, and now it's obvious he's upset. "She's not a fake, okay?"

"I wouldn't worry, Anthony. He's giving you all a line, at least I believe that's the correct colloquialism," Gordon said, joining the conversation for the first time. He'd been sitting quietly in the half-shadows, observing. "Sarah is correct, Doctor House. You would have made no scruple about accusing Roz of duplicity if you felt it was an accurate and truthful charge."

"I find it very hard to believe she could have pulled more files out of the bookcase, thrown two books to the floor, turned a chair upside down and taken two balls out to display on your desk, all with one hand more or less, in the time between leaving the lounge and returning," Sarah said. "You and Tony both said it was as if she turned around immediately and came back."

"No, I could have done it if I'd really wanted to," Roz said. Greg turned to stare at her, surprised. "But I was pretty tired by then and hurting. I think I'd have been a lot more winded when I got back to the office than I was, even accounting for adrenaline rush."

Sarah looked at Tony and tapped the screen with her finger. "Can we advance frame by frame?"

They watched in silence as the file flew by Roz's head in slow motion. As her eyes tracked it, Roz caught a movement, just a flicker but still noticeable. "There," she said, and had Tony take the video back a few frames. "Look just below the crown of my head."

Two frames in, a lock of her hair moved as if it was being tugged or pulled. "Wow," Sarah whispered. She rubbed her arms. "Chills."

"It could be her hair catching on something," Greg said. "We can't see the ends, they're out of frame."

"That's possible," Roz said. "But I checked, and there was nothing snagging my hair—I wasn't wearing jewelry and no tags on my shirt."

"A breeze, then," Greg said. "Something from the air duct."

"Easy enough to check that," Tony said.

The rest of the video showed nothing of significance. Roz stopped the video and sat back.

"We'll need to do some debunking," she said. "More investigations over a series of weeks and under different conditions should give us some answers. But we've still got the rest of the video to go through from this camera and the others, as well as the digital pictures. We'll know better what we need to do when we get all the evidence reviewed."

After Tony's gone home and they've been left alone by the other residents of the house Roz says quietly, "Are you coming back on the next investigation?"

"Are you kidding? Of course," Greg says. He sits down next to her in the spot Sarah vacated and lets his leg press against hers. "I'd never pass up an opportunity to explore the truth."

"Or your girlfriend," Roz says dryly.

"Her too," he admits.

"I see." She leans over to kiss his cheek. "Close enough for government work."

Greg turns his head and brushes his lips over hers, then takes the last word—or more accurately, chortle.

"Mwuaaaaaahahahahahaaaaaa . . ."

**_Thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined please leave a review, it would make my day. _**


	8. Chapter 8

**(_A/N: I will be working on an original fic-aka a novel-in NaNoWriMo starting today. This means for the month of November, no extra chapters-but I did try to make the next four installments a bit longer. -B)_**

_October 28__th_

_10:45 a.m._

Greg finishes the dressing and sits back. "How does that feel?"

"Weird," Roz says, looking down at the minimal bandaging on her arm and finger. "But kinda nice too."

"Think you can cope with it by yourself?" He isn't worried about her ability to handle the daily routine; he's concerned that she won't follow it at all.

"Yeah, I can manage." The indifference in her voice confirms his fears.

"You need to take care of this," he says, his words sharper than he intended. "Don't be an idiot and think you can forget to change the dressing for weeks on end."

To his surprise Roz gives him a look filled with equal parts amusement and annoyance. "I won't forget."

"You say that to my face," he retorts. "You show up in the ER with an infection, I'll kick your charming little ass."

That makes her laugh, which was not his intention but is still good in a weird sort of way. He relaxes slightly. "I mean that," he throws in.

"_Now_ I'm scared," she says. Her eyes are moss-green, full of humor and secrets. Before he can stop himself he leans forward and kisses her. When the kiss ends he says

"You should be."

"Hah." Her warm breath ghosts over his mouth. He can taste it, sweet with peppermint toothpaste. "I like the way you try to keep me in line, buster."

There's no response for that except another kiss, this one longer, more intimate. Her tongue strokes his shyly, an action that always delights him for some reason. He returns the gesture with more boldness, his hand sliding behind her head to bring her just a bit closer.

"You're . . . you're sure you'll be all right?" he says a little later. He doesn't want her to leave but he can't say that out loud because she has a home of her own to go to, and work to return to, and a life outside of his.

"I'd rather stay here with you," she says. "But Sarah's got enough to deal with."

He nods once. Gene is struggling, and Sarah is powerless to help. Watching the two of them is an exercise in pain that is not easy to endure. "You sure you're all right?"

"I think so." She smiles at him. There's a shadow in her smile, but he understands why. Once you've been scarred you see the darkness inherent in everything. It was always there, you just didn't notice it. "Talking with Sarah and with you about things . . . it's helped a lot." She looks away, but her good hand finds his. "We should set up another investigation of your office."

"Even after we found out the nurses and Singh pranked us?" he says, surprised that she'd want to continue.

"They claimed all they did was dump the files and put the balls on the desk, but that doesn't explain the file that fell when I was in there, or the temperature drop. Or how the toy sheep got into your bed. And . . ." She hesitates. "The hair tugs."

"Someone stuck the sheep in my jacket pocket as part of the prank and it fell out on the bed," he says. "The rest was probably caused by something as simple as the air conditioning coming on."

"Possible," Roz says, "but we don't know for sure. Some investigations spread over a couple of months would give us a better idea of the office environment during different conditions."

"Hmm . . ." He can't believe he's considering it, but he is. Despite his best intentions he's become intrigued by what Roz does, by her steadfast refusal to accept anything less than rock-solid physical evidence that cannot be explained by natural means. She out-skeptics even him, and that's saying something. "Maybe."

"Fair enough. Let me know when you'd like to stay up all night with me again," Roz says. "I'll call you when you get home from work." She kisses him one more time, straightens, picks up Hellboy's carrier and walks away. She looks back once to offer him a smile when she reaches the door where Lou is waiting, ready to take her to her apartment, and her true life.

[H] [H] [H]

_6:15 p.m._

It was nearly dark by the time Gene reappeared, coming through the back door to shuck off muddy boots and hang up his coat. Sarah put the beef casserole in the oven and watched out of the corner of her eye as he moved through the kitchen without greeting her and headed for the living room. After a moment the office door closed. She dumped the potholders on the counter and went to the front door and down the drive to collect the day's mail. Most of it was junk—political ads, notices for donating clothing or furniture to charity—but a few envelopes were work-related. One was addressed to her. Sarah opened it, frowning at the Mayfield return address.

She was sitting at the dining room table still staring at it ten minutes later when Greg came into the kitchen. He paused in the act of taking a beer from the fridge.

"What's wrong?" His voice was harsh and pulled Sarah out of her thoughts. She glanced at Greg. He hovered behind the island, watching her with palpable anxiety.

_Of course he's anxious. The last time he saw me with a letter, it was news of my mother's death. But it's even worse than that. This has to remind him of his childhood, when his parents weren't talking or things were so tense any action or word could cause terrible consequences for him. He must feel like he's in dangerous territory again, especially since he's come to think of this as his home and a safe place. _She felt ashamed of her self-absorption.

"Nothing's wrong," she said. "But some advice would be welcome. Think you could help me out?"

He approached the table with caution and sat down, still watching her. Sarah picked up the letter and handed it to him. He took it and after a final wary glance, began to read.

"This is a referral for a consult," he said at last. He seemed a bit more relaxed now, the tightness gone from his words.

"Yes," Sarah said.

Greg tossed the letter across the table. "So what do you need from me?"

"I trust your judgment," she said. "I'd be very interested in your impression of the request itself."

He gave her a keen look. "You already believe something's wrong if you're asking me that."

"'Wrong' might be too strong a word," she said. "What did you think of it?"

Greg sat back. "You tell me your take on this first."

Sarah nodded. "Okay. The consult itself isn't a problem. But I don't trust the colleague asking for it, for personal reasons."

"I don't see what the difficulty is then," Greg said. "You either accept or reject the request. Pretty simple."

"And yet it isn't." She folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

"Why? This is obviously one of the board members who had a say in the decision to dump you from your position, and now they're asking you for advice as if nothing's happened." Greg watched her. "That's your 'personal reason'."

Sarah looked at her hands. "It is. I'm just not sure it's enough to keep me from agreeing to the consult. There is a third party to consider here, someone who truly needs help. If I base my decision on an emotional reaction, that third party could be harmed by my choice."

"Oh, come on," Greg said with some impatience. "You know that's not what's really bothering you. You can't help Gene and you're tired of working with me, so you need a new challenge and this is a chance to find one."

She pushed aside her knee-jerk reaction to his statement and considered what he'd said. "Yes to the first part," she said after a moment. "No to the second."

"Well, since we're being honest . . ." Greg leaned forward. "Tell the truth. You've had enough of me."

"What brought this on?" Sarah asked, curious.

"What do you mean, what brought this on? I've lived here for nearly a year now. You're telling me you don't resent having me underfoot, being forced to deal with all my petty little trials and tribulations on a daily basis?"

"You have to do the same," she pointed out. "My marriage is going through a rough patch. It can't be easy to put up with that, but I haven't heard you complain."

He shrugged. "You have to expect trouble even in peachy-cream paradise at some point, it's inevitable."

"Okay. Well, it's the same with friendships," Sarah said. "But we've had this discussion before. What's bringing it up again? Is there something you need to tell me or talk about?"

"Can't I just make an observation?" Greg folded his arms.

"You generally don't unless there's a purpose behind it," Sarah said. "So what is it?"

"Maybe it's time for me to move out."

Sarah sat up a bit. "You mean out of the house completely? Not just a bolthole in the barn?"

He shrugged. "I think you don't need me here when things are already tough."

"Because you'll make it worse," she guessed. Greg looked away but didn't say anything. "Let me take a wild stab in the dark and assume your father blamed you for whatever went wrong in your house."

"Not just Dad," Greg said under his breath. "And it wasn't ever my house, it was theirs. I just happened to live there."

Sarah fought a sudden urge to hunt down Blythe House and throttle her. "I don't feel that way," she said. "Never have, never will."

"Never's a long time." He wasn't looking at her but she sensed him paying close attention.

"As a matter of fact, yes, it is," she said. "I said it when you first came here, and it still stands: this is your home for as long as you care to stay."

"You're still sure Gunney sees it that way?"

_Ahah_, Sarah thought. "I suggest you talk to him about this." Whatever the two of them might be going through, Gene wouldn't go back on his word; she knew him well enough to be certain of that much.

After a moment Greg gave a single nod and stood. "When's dinner?"

"In a few minutes," she said. "Don't think I didn't see you ruining your appetite an hour ago, eating half the cookies I baked this afternoon."

He rolled his eyes but a smile tugged at his mouth. "Christ on a crutch, _Mom_," he growled. Sarah chuckled, even as she heard the office door open. Her amusement vanished.

"Knock it off," Greg said. She looked up at him in inquiry and found him scowling at her. "Obsessing's going to give you wrinkles and a frown line. You're headed there already, why push it?"

Sarah tilted her head as warmth crept back into her heart. "You're a fine one to talk."

"And don't you forget it." He limped away to his bedroom, presumably to change out of his work clothes. Sarah watched him go, then turned her attention to Gene and Gordon as they sat down across from her.

"Progress has been made," Gordon said. "We'd like to speak with you after supper, if you're so inclined."

Sarah took a deep breath. "I know this is asking a lot," she said quietly. "Would it be possible to include Greg in the discussion?"

Gene gave her a direct look for the first time that day. "You're right. It is a lot to ask," he said.

"We've included him in every major decision in the household since he came here, something you agreed to on your own," Sarah said. "He's already anxious because we're having difficulties."

"So his treatment supercedes mine," Gene said. His tone was as mild as hers, but the undertone was bitter.

"_No_," Sarah said, pushing away the desire to raise her voice. "But it does intersect with yours, and he is fully as much in need of support and reassurance as you are. I have a responsibility to him too, as my patient and also as my friend." She didn't bother to appeal to Gordon, knowing he would not intervene.

"What if I say no?" Gene folded his arms.

"Then you say no," Sarah said. "I'm just asking you to consider saying yes."

"If I don't fall in with what you want you'll make sure I pay for it later."

It was as if he'd slapped her, hard. Sarah blinked. The hurt swept through her, hot and sharp; she struggled with it for a moment. And then quite literally, she'd had enough. All the waiting, the fear, the constant suppression of uncertainty and loneliness; the weight of it collapsed like a volcano cone into a swelling magma chamber, with similar results.

"How _dare_ you say that to me!" She got to her feet, shaking with the sudden, surging power of absolute fury. "I would never consider that sort of action and you _know_ it, Michael Eugene! I have done everything-_everything_ in my power to support you when you made decisions that were pure hell for me to accept—I didn't make y'all _pay_ for _anything!_" Her voice rose. "You knew going to Haiti would open old wounds, you knew you hadn't dealt with what happened in Somalia or even your own family, damn their miserable ignorant souls to hell, and still you asked for support and I gave it because I love you and thought I was doing the right thing! Well, more fool me! Now you're paying the price and somehow it's all _my_ fault!" She jammed the chair in place hard enough to make both men flinch. "_Fuck_ that and the horse you rode in on, you—you goddamn pig-stubborn Nebraska clodhopper! I accept responsibility for not standin' up to you but the rest is on y'all's own head, so deal with it yourself or not, I do _not_ give a flyin' fuzzy pink rat's ass!" With that she stalked off to the mudroom, yanked her coat off the hook and threw it on, grabbed her purse and keys.

"I'm goin' _out__!_" she said. Slamming the back door behind her was a most satisfying exercise in misplaced violence.

[H] [H] [H]

Gene sighed softly. "That went well." He winced as he heard Minnie Lou fire up and roar down the driveway.

"She always did have quite a temper when roused," Gordon said in the mildest of tones. "I do hope she'll be careful on the road."

"What the hell is going on?" Greg moved into the circle of light around the dining room table but didn't sit down, hovering as if he was keeping the option of fleeing available. Gene resisted the urge to glare at him.

"What do you think?" he said, rubbing his forehead in a useless attempt to stop the ache growing there.

"I think you finally pushed her to the breaking point," Greg said. "Nice work."

"What the hell do you know about it?" Gene growled.

"Now, boys," Gordon said quietly.

"I pay attention," Greg said. "She's been beside herself with worry about you for months, god knows why. You certainly don't deserve it."

"Don't tell me what I know and don't know about my wife," Gene said. His hand clenched; he forced it to relax. _Wimp,_ his father's voice whispered deep inside. _Hit him. You know you want to. _"Keep your opinions to yourself."

"Opinions, that's just ripe coming from you. I was here while you were off playing hero. I saw how your being away affected her." There was a taunting note in Greg's voice that ate at Gene's self-control. "She put up a good front to give you support, but when she needs some from you you're MIA."

"That's enough," Gene said. He got to his feet. _Shut him up,_ Dad hissed. _No one talks to you that way, especially not some whiny smartmouth cripple!_ "I'm warning you."

"What's wrong, Gunney? You wanna hit me?" Greg came even closer. His blue eyes were piercing, filled with contempt. "You aren't the first. But I bet right now Sarah wants to clean your clock more than you—"

Gene hit Greg in the mouth, hard. He watched with satisfaction as the other man staggered back—and then they were on the floor, punching the hell out of each other, rolling into the couch as the coffee table was overturned. Gene saw stars as Greg's fist slammed into his eye; he returned the favor and felt a sort of savage joy surge through him. He was more alive now than he'd been in a very long time, all because he had the chance to beat the shit out of someone else. _You're more like me than you think,_ his father's ghost exulted. Gene ignored the hated voice and landed a blow on Greg's ribs. He got one in return, hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs. Disabled Greg might be, but he had a wicked right hook.

The next thing Gene knew he was being hauled up by his collar and dragged away from Greg. "That's enough!" Gordon held them both apart at arm's length. Gene lunged for Greg and Gordon shook him like a terrier with a rat. "_Enough_, I said!"

"Fuck off!" Gene snarled. He wiped a warm trickle of blood and sweat out of his eye, wincing as it stung. "This is between me and him!" he struggled to free himself of Gordon's grasp and was unable to do so.

"It's also between you and your father," Gordon snapped. "That goes for Doctor House as well, I suspect. Now the two of you sit down and take a breather between rounds, or I'll be forced to call the local constabulary." He frog-marched both of them to the table and tossed them into chairs opposite each other. Gene flinched as his bruised ribs protested. He leaned back and watched Greg bite his lip as he stretched out his bad leg. _Did I hit him there? _The rush of satisfaction he felt at the thought gave Gene pause. How far gone was he now that hurting someone already in pain-a _patient_, for god's sake-made him feel good?

"I'm sure this won't be nearly as immediately satisfying as fisticuffs, but I want the two of you to talk about what just happened," Gordon was saying, and for the first time since his arrival at the house he sounded truly annoyed. "I sense you both have some sort of bad blood beyond the issues you raised during your _contretemps_."

"He got Sarah fired from her job," Gene said.

"Hah," Greg said. "I knew you'd want revenge for that sooner or later." He glared at Gene out of one good eye. The other was already swollen shut and darkening rapidly; his lip was split, and there was a bruise on his jaw. From the way Gene felt he figured his own head was roughly in the same state of disarray.

"And yet he's here living with you, being treated as a member of the family," Gordon said. "Knowing Sarah as I do that doesn't surprise me, but I'd like to hear your views on the sequence of events."

"She offered to work with him after he played a stupid practical joke on her," Gene said. "He sent copies of her personal journal to the staff at Mayfield. As a consequence the board of directors felt she wasn't fit to continue treating patients."

"She showed my journal to my best friend and the members of my team," Greg said. He sounded angry, but there was a subtle edge of pain in his words that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. "I just gave her a taste of her own medicine."

"Sarah broke your trust," Gordon said. "So you felt justified in breaking hers."

"I never meant to get her fired," Greg muttered. His gaze dropped to the tabletop.

"But it happened," Gene said. "And you didn't even bother to try to make things right. You just went ahead and let her take you in, because you think she owed you. You still do."

"Not true." Greg's head came up. "Don't put words in my mouth." He rubbed his damaged thigh, pulled his hand away. "I—I didn't know . . ."

"You didn't know how you could go about correcting your mistake?" Gordon asked.

"There was no point in correcting it. She wouldn't go back to work there with everyone knowing her personal history."

"That was for her to decide," Gene snapped. "You could have at least tried to get her reinstated but you didn't want her going back anyway, did you? You had her all to yourself."

"You agreed to it," Greg said. Again Gene caught that echo of pain. Forcing himself to think past the fading adrenaline rush of their fight, he knew whatever he said next could either cause a great deal of harm or help to defuse the situation, but it also had to be honest.

"Yeah, I did," he said. "I thought it was way too forgiving of Sarah, but she's like that. She needed me to support her, so I did."

"Then you didn't want me here," Greg said.

"I told you, I don't like it when people mess with my best girl," Gene said. "You needed her help, but you didn't have to hurt her the way you did."

"This is stupid." Greg struggled to his feet.

"Sit _down_," Gordon said, loud and clear. Slowly Greg obeyed. "Is there some truth to what Gene is saying?"

Greg was silent for a few moments. "Maybe."

"Very well," Gordon said. "So what else has been festering under the surface? Come on," he urged when both men said nothing, "this barney has its origins in much more than resentment at Sarah's getting the sack at Doctor House's hands."

"She said you don't share," Greg said. Gene stared at him.

"When did she tell you that?"

"A while ago." Greg eased back in his chair and groaned. "Damn, you have gnarly knuckles."

Gordon sat back, hands folded across his stomach. "So you feel Gene resents your presence in the household not just because of what happened with Sarah's job?"

"You're saying I'm _jealous?_" Gene stood up. "You really think I'm that—that petty and ignorant?"

"Hey, she called you a pig-stubborn Nebraska clodhopper, not me," Greg said. "I think the whole town knows that by now. She was really loud there at the end."

"_Sit down_," Gordon said sharply. Gene complied with some reluctance. "Why would you consider jealousy petty and ignorant? You have a wife who's beautiful in more ways than the physical, Gene. I'd be surprised if you weren't possessive."

"She's not an object, okay?" The blood was pounding in his head now, his aching body pushing him to walk away. "I don't think of her as my—my possession! She's her own person!"

"Until she disagrees with you," Greg said. "Then you just roll right over her and do whatever the hell you want, expecting her to give in and agree because it's important to you."

_He's right, _Dad whispered. _That's how you keep your woman in line. I used it on your mother and it worked like a charm. _"That's not true!"

"Who are you talking to right now?" Gordon asked quietly. "Us, or someone else?"

Gene banged his bruised fist down on the tabletop in frustration. "My old man, my so-called dad, asshole that he was! I'm not him, I don't beat up my wife and drink a case a day!" He saw a stricken look pass over Greg's face for just a moment, and it cranked his anger even higher. "Fuck you," he snarled at Greg. "I don't want your sympathy!"

"None given," Greg said, glaring at him. "So your dad was a prick. Stand in line."

"Yeah, because yours was worse," Gene sneered. "Wanna compare notes?"

"No," Greg said. His anger seemed to fade a bit. "I'm pretty sure we'd even out in that department."

"And it's well beside the point," Gordon said. "As difficult as your relationship with your father undoubtedly was, at the moment I'm more interested in how things stood with your mother."

"Oh, I get it. I'm my dad and I treat Sarah like he treated my mom." Gene folded his arms. "What a bunch of bullshit."

"Except that you believe quite the opposite, don't you?" Gordon watched him with a calmness Gene found as infuriating as Greg's taunts.

"Let me make this as plain as I can—I am NOT my father." Gene spoke through gritted teeth.

"Methinks the Gunney doth protest too much," Greg said.

"No observations from the cheap seats, if you please," Gordon said. He leaned forward. "But we're not talking of your father, we're focusing on your mother. Why do you avoid speaking of her? Did she hate you, abandon you, not care about you one way or the other?"

"She was my mom," Gene said. He could feel the fire of his anger fading. "She didn't do anything wrong."

"Did I say she had? I was simply offering a few possibilities for you to agree or disagree with."

"She didn't stand up for you," Greg said. Gene stared at him.

"You don't know her," he said.

"Mine didn't stand up for me." Greg looked away. "Took me forty-odd years to figure it out."

Gene hesitated. At last he gave in to his curiosity. "What do you mean?"

Greg shrugged and stopped as pain flashed across his features. "She stood with my dad because he was the one who owned the household through sheer force of will and physical strength. Any other choice would have earned her the same treatment I got, and I wasn't strong enough to fight him and protect her. Even if I could have done it, I don't think it would have made a difference. She chose her side, and it wasn't ever going to be with me. I found that out way early on."

There it was, laid out in a stark truth he could not avoid. "Yeah," Gene said after a long silence. He swallowed on a hard lump. "Yeah . . . me too."

"Well done," Gordon said quietly. "Right, then. We'll stop there for tonight." He rose to his feet. "Anyone need a cold steak on their mouse while I retrieve tonight's dinner from the oven?"

[H] [H] [H]

_7 p.m._

By the time Sarah reached town she had calmed down a little, but her anger still simmered. She decided on dinner at Lou's and parked the truck on the other side of the square, hoping the short walk would cool her off a little more.

The restaurant was full but not crowded. Lou met her at the hostess's station. He gave her a curious look. "You here to cook for me?"

Sarah looked down at herself and found she was still wearing her apron. She started to take it off, but instead of releasing the knot in the strings she only tightened it. "Oh good lord," she said in complete exasperation, and felt tears fill her eyes.

"Okay, I see how it is," Lou said. "You've had a bad day. Go on back to the kitchen, I'll fix you something special."

"You don't have to go to all that trouble," Sarah said. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingertips, ashamed.

"No trouble," Lou said. "Go. Sit."

She was drinking a glass of iced tea and enjoying a fresh calzone at what served as the staff break table when she noticed there was only one waitress working—Marlene, Lou's stalwart long-time employee.

"The kid got fired and Roz is out of commission," Lou said when Sarah asked him about it. "We'll manage."

Sarah popped the last bite of calzone in her mouth, chewed and swallowed it, and dusted off her hands. "Gimme a pad and a pencil," she said on a sudden impulse. "It's been a few years, but I think I remember how to wait tables. You can't leave Marly in the weeds like this."

Lou studied her. "You sure?"

"I'm workin' off a mad," Sarah said. "You get an extra pair of hands, I get to think about something else for a while. Bargain?"

Fifteen minutes later she stood in front of a family of five with pencil in hand, somewhat nervous but feeling a little steadier than she had when she arrived. "Welcome to Lou's, my name's Sarah. I'm your server tonight. What would you like to drink?"

Her cell phone rang twice that evening; she let the calls go to voicemail, checked the IDs on her break, and left a message with one of the callers.

"Gordon, I'm all right. I'm in town if you need me at this number. I'll be home pretty late. We'll talk in the morning."

It was several hours later-just past midnight in fact, when Sarah took off her server's apron and sat down with a sigh. "Wow," she said, and flexed her aching feet. "That was hard work."

"You busted butt out there this evening," Marlene said. "I say we keep her, Lou."

"I think this was a one-time event," Lou said, smiling. Sarah glanced at him.

"Well," she said slowly, "it doesn't have to be." She sat back a bit. "Maybe we can work something out to our mutual satisfaction."

**_Thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day. Go NaNo writers! _**


	9. Chapter 9

_November 4__th_

_10:30 a.m._

"I'm very heartened by all of you agreeing to sit in the same room together," the Brit is saying in a wry tone. "That's progress of some sort."

Greg doesn't look at Sarah or Gene. His plan is to drink his coffee and escape as soon as he can. Even facing utter boredom at work is better than dealing with this mess. He doesn't want to participate in the angstfest that is surely to come, but at the moment he has no choice; Wyatt coerced him into it with a mixture of charm, amiability and ruthless honesty Greg couldn't refute, overwhelmed as he'd been by the power of the man's persuasion. Still, he might be able to get out of some of what's headed his way.

"Have to leave soon," he says. "Long commute, lots of traffic. Don't want to be late for work."

Sarah gives him a dry look, but he sees a glimmer of humor in her gaze. She's worried though, he knows the signs well by now; there's a little line between her brows and faint circles under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping, he's heard her in the office late at night or staying up later than usual when she plays in the evenings; he's woken up in the small hours to music coming from the living room.

"Bullshitter," Gene says under his breath.

"I never said otherwise," Greg says. "Unlike some."

"Slanging matches will not avail you," Wyatt says. "We're here for the next hour. Starting a barney now increases the likelihood of unpleasantness escalating rather rapidly, I should think."

"Coming home to find the two of you moping around with black eyes and banged-up ribs was bad enough once," Sarah says. "I'd like to avoid that happening again if possible."

"You'd like to avoid a lot of things," Gene says, and Greg knows the first round has begun.

"Be that as it may, we're here to discuss what's going on with all parties," Wyatt says. "There are some issues to bring to light. We'll start with Gene's last statement, if you don't mind. What do you think Sarah avoids?"

For the next little while it's point-counterpoint, not worth listening to until the Brit jolts Greg into wakefulness by asking "Do you have any observations to add to this discussion, Doctor House?"

"No," he says, and prepares to slip off into daydream mode once more when Gene says

"Figures you wouldn't take this seriously."

Greg shrugs. "Why should I? You're both too busy pulling your punches to bother."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gene wants to know.

"You're pissed off at each other, but you," Greg inclines his head toward Gene, "are too deep in denial to say anything and you," he nods at Sarah in turn, "are afraid of hurting your husband. So you end up going around in circles."

"And of course you're only an innocent bystander," Gene says, heavy on the sarcasm.

"Finally, someone's realized my true role in this little family drama. That means I'm free to leave, seeing as I'm not involved," Greg says, and gets up.

"Sit _down_," Wyatt says, quiet but firm. Slowly Greg obeys. Gene throws him a 'told you so' look. Greg sticks his tongue out at Gene. "What _is_ your role here, Doctor House? How do you perceive yourself in this household dynamic?"

Greg glances at Sarah. She is watching him, as always steady, warm, encouraging. "Problem child," he says. He's uncomfortable admitting it, but that doesn't make it any less the truth.

"Could you be a little more forthcoming?" Wyatt says. "What's your age? Toddler, older child, teen?"

"Eternal three-year-old," Gene says before Greg can answer.

"I was thinking more along of the lines of four," Greg says.

"With that stack of porn you keep by the bed, more like fourteen," Sarah says. Greg stares at her in surprise. "No, I haven't been in your room. I'm guessing," she says, with a little smile. Wyatt chuckles.

"I'd say you know your boy," he says. "Gene, how do you feel about having a foster son to raise?"

Gene doesn't answer right away. "I . . . hadn't planned on it," he says. "He's my patient in pain management. I hadn't expected . . ."

"You were working with him before Sarah was sacked, were you not?" Wyatt asks when Gene falls silent. Gene nods. "And yet you kept him on . . . why? If he truly was just your patient and nothing else, surely it would be simple to send him to someone else?"

"I . . . couldn't," Gene says at last. He sounds a little startled.

"Well of course you could! Simplest thing in the world, passing him off to someone else—"

"No," Gene says. "I didn't—" He stops, glances at Greg, then away. "I just didn't want to."

"You didn't because even when you were angry with Greg you knew he needed help," Sarah says softly.

"Is that an accurate assessment?" Wyatt asks when Gene doesn't answer, and gets a shrug of the shoulders for answer.

"So what you're saying is that having me stay is your version of doing a good deed?" Greg says. He's not sure what he thinks of that idea.

"I don't see it that way," Gene says.

"It's a valid observation," Wyatt says. "Did you allow Doctor House to live here simply because you pitied him?"

"No," Gene says. He shifts in his seat. "I can safely say I've never felt sorry for him." _Quite the opposite_, his tone implies. "But even if I'm pissed off, I still have an obligation to honor my promise to my profession and to my wife."

"So you're really Joan of Arc," Greg says. "She was the strong silent type too, more than likely. Martyrdom's a tough gig. You have to master the art of showing you're suffering without actually saying a word. Ask Wilson for pointers sometime, he's a total pro." He leans back. "I didn't expect either of you to put yourselves out for me. When Sarah offered to have me stay she said she'd cleared it with you. I'm presuming that's true and she gave you the chance to back out."

"She discussed it with me, yes," Gene says. "I had no objections—"

"Why not?" Greg says, talking over him. "You were mad as hell at me in the diner after you found out what I did. You threatened me, remember? Why wouldn't you object to having me living in your house, demanding time from your wife—"

"It wasn't like that," Gene says, but his heart isn't in it, that's pretty obvious.

"Oh balls," Greg says, disgusted. "You lie like you breathe." He sees Gene's hand clench and snorts in amusement. "So that's your answer? Wanna punch my other eye?"

"No fisticuffs," Wyatt says. "Less provocation if you please Doctor House, or I'll be sending you my fee for this session. Now then," he says, looking at Gene, "did you agree to having the good doctor here stay with you despite misgivings?"

"What do you want me to say?" Gene's voice is louder now. He's so quiet most of the time, hearing him do this is weird. Greg feels a rill of anxiety course through him. He pushes it away. "Fine, I didn't like it."

"Oh, I think it was far worse than that," Wyatt says softly. "I think the phrase 'didn't like it' is a pale indicator of how you felt about proceedings."

"I see how things are," Gene says. "Everyone else knows more about how I feel than I do." He crosses his arms and glares at Wyatt. "So what else do you know?"

"I know that you're in the habit of stuffing your feelings so far down inside yourself that you forget you've got them, at least consciously," the Brit says, still in that soft, provocative voice. "And when you do remember, when something or someone opens that closed-up place within you, you run off to the military and Somalia, or you specialize in pain management and end up in Haiti, helping everyone else and completely ignoring your own needs."

_Ouch_. Greg flinches. That's an assessment like a surgeon's scalpel—sharp, cold and deep-cutting. He's going to make sure Wyatt doesn't come anywhere near him with that instrument. He knows he won't care to be vivisected this way, with observers to boot.

"So I'm a complete fuckup," Gene says bitterly. Sarah reaches over and takes his hand in hers.

"No," she says. "Far from it."

"I'm surprised you're not agreeing with general consensus," Gene says, but he doesn't take his hand from Sarah's clasp.

"You know we've talked in the past about the fact that you tend to push your feelings away," Sarah says quietly. "I knew that and still expected you to be able to tell me how you felt. I accept an equal share of the responsibility for creating this situation and for that I'm sorry, Gene."

"How did the two of you meet?" Wyatt asks, apropos of nothing. Greg gives him a shrewd look but stays silent.

"It was at a coffeehouse concert—you remember they used to have them in the basement of the undergraduate library, Prof. A friend of mine wanted me to take a break from studying, so I went. Gene was on the list of performers . . ." She comes to a stop. Greg is amused to see she is starting to blush. "I, uh, he . . . came to my apartment later and asked me for a date."

"Why did you do that?" Wyatt asks Gene, who looks uncomfortable.

"She was hot," Greg can't resist chipping in. Sarah's blush deepens.

"She was beautiful," Gene says quietly. "She stood out in that crowd like a ruby in a pile of rocks." He looks at Wyatt. "Why are you asking about this?"

"I believe perhaps it's just possible that you saw something, some ability or trait, in Sarah that told you she could help," Wyatt says. "Quite obviously you were attracted to her if that lovely metaphor you offered is anything to go on, but you're far more perceptive and capable of seeing beyond obvious physical beauty."

"Oh come on," Sarah says. She's positively scarlet now. Wyatt offers her a grin.

"A truly modest woman," he says, "always such a delight."

"So you think I wanted Sarah because she could save me?" Gene asks slowly. Greg can see him turning the idea over in his mind and not liking it much.

"An accurate summation, albeit only in part," Wyatt says. "The attraction was certainly genuine, of that I have no doubt. Unfortunately, the most Sarah could ever do is help you find your own healing. There's quite a difference between the two approaches."

"And expecting her to do more . . . was wrong," Gene says, still considering the possibility.

"It was a step in the correct direction, acknowledging even if only subconsciously that you were in need of help. But believing the love of a good woman will rescue you singlehanded from mental and emotional breakdown is not realistic, even if she's willing to try."

"And so I ask yet again, where do I enter the picture?" Greg wants to know.

"We are coming to that point, Doctor House. If you would simply bide your time it would be much appreciated." The Brit gives him a cheerful smile. "Impatient sort, aren't you?"

"You make that sound like a bad thing," Greg mutters, but he subsides for the moment.

"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Help versus save." Wyatt sits back. "You've been together for some time now. In any of those years have you ever sought professional help for post-traumatic stress disorder or clinical depression?" Gene shakes his head. "May I ask why?"

"I just didn't," Gene says, terse now. His hand tightens around Sarah's.

"You'll forgive me, but that's a thoroughly inadequate response. Think about this," Wyatt urges. "It's quite important."

Silence descends. Greg watches Gene, he can't help it. The answer is obvious, but the man is truly struggling. The temptation to say something is so strong Greg opens his mouth, but a quelling look from the Brit shuts it again.

"I didn't look for help," Gene says at last, "because I thought I already had it."

"Pre-cisely! Well done, very well done." Wyatt beams at Gene.

"Good dog," Greg can't resist the jibe.

"Fuck you," Gene mutters, glaring at him.

"Doctor House," Wyatt says, turning his attention to Greg. "I believe this is where you enter the equasion."

"I never expected anyone to save me," he says, hoping to stave off the inquisition to come.

"Oh, quite the opposite, I'm thinking," the Brit says. "You pushed away all offers of help for some time, if the journal incident is anything to go by."

"Duh," Greg says.

"Yes, agreed. It's an obvious conclusion. So why did you finally change your mind?"

"I didn't change it so much as it was changed for me," Greg says.

"Took a bit of persuading, undoubtedly," Wyatt says.

"You could say that."

"And so there you were and still are to some extent, Sarah, caught between Scylla and Charybdis—one person resisting your help quite strenuously, the other expecting you to save him without his having to so much as ask." He studies her for a moment. "How do you feel about that?"

"Torn," Sarah says eventually. She looks down at her hand in Gene's. "Inadequate." She takes a breath. "Angry, sometimes. Frustrated."

"And why do you feel torn, inadequate, angry, frustrated?"

"Because I'm only one person," she says quietly. "I have my own limitations."

"But you lost your position to this patient you've taken in and treated as a son of the household. How does that show your limitations, Sarah? By anyone's standard that's a gesture far beyond generous."

"I couldn't do anything less," Sarah says, even more quietly than before. "Greg needed my help. I wanted to help him. He shoved me away, I gave him another chance."

"Why?" Wyatt tilts his head and watches her, his affection plain. The feeling is one of a teacher coaching a star pupil with expectation of an intelligent reply.

"I believe the answer you want from me is that I couldn't give Gene what he needed so I turned to Greg because I could help him," Sarah says after a few moments. "But it's not that simple."

"Life rarely is," Wyatt says. "Sarah my dear, the only answers I require from you will be the truthful kind, and as always you do not disappoint."

"I've tried to help Gene find a good psychiatrist, but ultimately the decision is his. That doesn't mean I haven't felt . . ." Sarah looks down. "Inadequate."

"There's no way you could do anything," Greg says. "It's conflict of interest at the very least and that's something you're well aware of. It's stupid to beat yourself up over this."

"I can't help it," Sarah says with some heat. "He's my friend besides being my husband. I can't stand-" She stops.

"Finish the thought," Wyatt says.

"I can't stand seeing him in pain," she says, but it's clear she doesn't want to say it, not in front of Gene. The reason why is apparent almost immediately. Gene takes his hand from hers and literally withdraws from the session. Greg can almost see the shutters being pulled in place and locked.

"And I do believe that is our cue to end proceedings for the time being," Wyatt says.

"Sounds good," Greg says, and hauls himself to his feet. "Tell me when the next inquisition's on so I can make sure to be out of the house. I have this thing about red-hot pokers being applied to my feet, actually I've had it since childhood. Weird, I know."

"You've been of enormous help," the Brit says. "Your presence will be requested again, you may count on it."

"Requested, that's one way to put it," Greg mutters under his breath. He catches Gene's eye and sees something like commiseration there. Greg gives the other man a little nod. They haven't settled all their personal gripes, not yet, but maybe next time it won't involve beating the ever living hell out of each other. He glances at his watch: eleven twenty. Time enough to stop off and see Roz before work. "Later."

Much to his surprise Sarah stands up and comes to him. "Say hi to Roz for us," she says, and gives him a smile, a genuine one. "Tell her not to be a stranger."

"You're working tonight?" he asks. She nods. "Better bring back a pizza or we'll all starve."

"Now you've gone and insulted me," the Brit says cheerfully. "And here I'd planned steaks on the grill and a large helping of what you Americans insist on calling fries."

Gene gets up and brushes past them. Sarah watches him go, and then looks back at Greg. "Have a good afternoon," she says. "Thanks, Prof," and follows Gene out of the room.

[H] [H] [H]

_11:45 a.m._

"I feel bad for Sarah," Roz says. They're sitting in her kitchen, watching Hellboy chase a laser pointer beam.

"You think she has it tough dealing with us knuckleheads, don't you?" Greg sips his coffee.

"That's not what I meant." Roz makes the cat go in slow circles, smiling at his futile attempts to grab the little red light. "It's got to be hard for her to see Gene hurting and know there's not much she can do about it."

That isn't something he wants to talk about, so he changes the subject. "How's the arm?"

"Okay," she says.

"You did your dressings?" It's obvious she has because her bandages are clean if a bit crooked or wrinkled in places, the clear result of being put on by her non-dominant hand. "Finger's all right?"

"Yes to both questions," she says. "I love it that you care."

"I just don't want you messing up our pristine ER bay," he says. Roz throws him that smile he secretly loves, glimmering with humor and affection for him, something he still hasn't gotten used to.

"I'll keep that in mind."

At the door she brings her good hand to his face as she kisses him. "Don't get too bored," she says. "Call me, I'll help keep you entertained."

"Got it," he says, and heads off to work feeling like maybe he can make it through the next few hours.

**_Thanks for reading, and if you feel so inclined please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. Go NaNo writers! _**


	10. Chapter 10

**_(A/N: we are headed into the holidays and the storyline will be following along. For those non-Americans who don't know what Thanksgiving is all about, it's basically a dress rehearsal for Christmas without the frenzy of gift-giving. We eat prodigious amounts of incredibly fattening and delicious food, then sit around stuffed, sleepy and feeling guilty, watching football or movies, planning Black Friday shopping lists and wondering if we can cram in one more slice of pie without anyone noticing._**

**_At any rate, it is an emotionally charged holiday for most of us, just as Christmas is, because it involves family, expectations and old memories, and the storyline will reflect this. Hope you enjoy the chapters to come. -B)__  
_**

_November 11__th_

_7 p.m._

"Well dear, I thought it would be nice to see each other for more than a flying visit. It's been such a long time since we've shared a holiday together, and there's so much I'd like to talk about with you . . . won't you please at least consider the idea?"

Greg fights the urge to shout at his mother. His insides are clenched so tight he can barely breathe. "Mom . . . I can't just invite you here for Thanksgiving. I have to ask if it's okay."

"But you live there, don't you?" Blythe sounds a little petulant. "I don't see what the problem is. Surely your analyst wouldn't object to you spending some time with your mother, who also happens to be your only remaining parent."

_Something to be thankful for right there, _he thinks. _The abusive one kicked off first and left me with the walking polygraph. Way to go, Dad. Very thoughtful. _ "I'll talk with Sarah and get back to you."

"That means you'll leave it until the last possible minute and then claim it won't work out or you just won't return my calls." Now she sounds acerbic, something he's only rarely heard over the years. He'd expected tears, not annoyance. "Put Doctor Goldman on the phone please, I'd like to speak with her."

"Um," Greg says, "she's not here."

"Yes she is, she answered the phone. Gregory, do as I say please."

There is no arguing with that tone. He slouches off to find Sarah, then with no shame whatsoever listens in on the conversation.

"Mrs. House, it's lovely to hear from you . . . Good, and you? . . . That's excellent! . . . Yes, we'll be here at the house for Thanksgiving . . ." There is a long pause as Sarah listens to what is more than likely a recap of what Blythe has been saying to him for the last fifteen minutes. Sarah glances at him. He shakes his head and mimes being hanged, tongue sticking out, gargling noises and all. She rolls her eyes and turns her back on him. "I think it's possible, but I need to speak with my husband and with Greg . . ." Another pause. "It isn't that, Mrs. House. You must understand, Greg is still involved in treatment. He's made excellent progress, but every situation has to be evaluated and discussed together . . . No ma'am, I'm not saying you can't see your boy . . . No . . . Mrs. House, I do realize what time of year it is. Holidays can be difficult, not just for Greg but for you too. I want to make sure both of you are able to deal with the extra emotional stress this time of year can cause . . . yes ma'am. You have my promise that we'll get back to you as soon as we can." When the call ends Sarah turns to face him.

"Meet me in the office in five minutes," she says.

"Aw come on," Greg whines. "Why do we have to talk about this? I don't want her to spend the whole weekend! It'll be nothing but one gigantic Technicolor scene from hell with a cast of thousands."

"Don't even think about leaving," she says in reply, and heads off, presumably to find Gene. The Brit will probably show up too; he's only here for another few days, so he has to get in his sessions wherever he can. Greg hunches his shoulders and glances at the office door. Maybe if he's really quiet, he can sneak out now . . .

"I meant what I said," Sarah says, her voice raised so he can hear it. "Three minutes thirty seconds."

"Dammit," Greg mutters.

Soon enough he's trapped in the office with Sarah and Gene, Wyatt having bowed out of proceedings.

"It's a family matter," he says, smiling just a little. "If you need my help by all means ask away, but until then I believe I'll avail myself of your truly excellent gaming resources in the living room."

Greg returns his attention to the conversation. "Blythe House would like to spend Thanksgiving weekend here with Greg," Sarah is saying. "We need to talk about this as a group before Greg and I sit down together and discuss what he wants to do."

"What's the point?" Greg wants to know. "She'll be here whether I want her to be or not."

"No," Sarah says. "That isn't how things work in this household."

"You don't know my mother," he shoots back. "She'll get what she wants."

"No she won't." Sarah gives him a direct look. "Whatever is decided will stand, you have my word on that."

"Why don't you want her to come up here?" Gene asks. He's looking a little better lately, less tense and a bit more himself. He and Wyatt have worked together daily, and Sarah has done everything in her power to help in whatever way she can; it's been quite the intriguing drama, watching them struggle and fail and occasionally make headway.

"Let's see . . . she stood by and let her husband . . ." Greg falls silent. "She stood by, we'll leave it at that."

"She still believes he was right to do what he did?" There is an edge in Gene's voice that makes Greg take a look at him. He seems pissed off. Greg isn't quite sure how to take that reaction, so he sidesteps it by not answering.

"She's been in therapy since the meeting this past January," Sarah says. Greg and Gene look at her. "She sent me an email," she says. "I think it was something her psychiatrist wanted her to do. I haven't heard from her since."

"And you think she's been magically transformed into June Cleaver over the last year?" Greg says with plenty of sarcasm.

"I'm not saying anything of the sort," Sarah says. "I'm just reporting a fact. I'm not drawing any conclusions."

"So you think she should come here," he says, testing the waters.

"It's your decision," Sarah says. "I will support you either way." She catches his glance. "No, I'm not saying that and thinking something else, Greg. I really mean it."

Greg looks at Gene. "Do you care?"

"How bad is she?" Gene wants to know. Greg raises an eyebrow.

"On a scale of one to ten? About ten to the tenth power," he says. "She's my _mom_."

"Got it," Gene says. "Do what you want. I'll deal if she shows up."

It is the most honest thing the man's said in some time. Greg nods. "Okay. That's fair." He stands up. "The answer's no."

Sarah looks down. "All right." Immediately Greg senses disapproval.

"You want me to say yes," he says, disgusted. "So much for standing by my decision."

"_No_," Sarah says, obviously exasperated. "This is not a game and it's not me being devious or lying or whatever to make you feel better, dammit! You said no, so it's no." She hands the phone to him. "Call her and tell her."

Greg stares at the receiver as if it's a poisonous snake. "Why can't you tell her?"

"She's your mother, that's why," Gene says. "Man up and get it over with."

"Easy for you to say," Greg mutters, but he takes the phone and sits at his desk. The clenching is back, worse than ever.

Blythe answers on the first ring. "Gregory? You're returning my call so soon? I didn't expect—"

"Yeah," he says, to stem the tide of pointless comments about to come his way. His mother is silent for a moment.

"Yes—what?" she asks finally. There is considerable trepidation in her tone. It jolts him out of his self-pity and resentment. For the first time Greg thinks about this situation from her point of view, how incredibly difficult it must have been for her to risk deep hurt and/or rejection to ask him for some time together; she's always shied away from any uncomfortable situations. To his astonishment he feels something, some kind of distant compassion, slip into his thoughts. To his utter horror he hears himself blurt out

"Yes—you can come to visit."

"Oh," Blythe says. "Oh . . . I really thought you were going to say no."

"I was," he says without thinking. There is a little silence.

"Oh," his mother says again. "I see. Well then . . ." She clears her throat softly. "It's . . . it's very generous of you to say yes."

_If you must know, it was out of pity._ Her words echo inside him. "I don't have a choice."

"What do you mean?" She actually sounds alarmed. "Your analyst didn't force you—"

"No," he says with some impatience. "I just—can't say no, even though I want to." He hesitates. "You're . . . you're my mother." Everything unspoken between them lies in those three simple words.

"I understand," Blythe says when he doesn't go on. "I won't stay any longer than necessary." She doesn't sound bitter, just resigned. "I could come up Wednesday night and leave after dinner on Thursday—"

"You're invited for the weekend," Greg says. _In for a damn penny, in for a pound._ "Get here whenever you get here on Wednesday, leave Sunday."

"Greg . . ." Now she sounds a little choked up. "I . . . thank you."

"Someone will meet you at the airport," he says. He might be stuck with her for the weekend, but he's not dumb enough to trap himself in a car with her for hours on end. "I can't sit that long—even with the TENS unit . . ."

"You don't have to explain," she says, and now there's actual, honest-to-god humor warming her words, something so rare he blinks. "I wouldn't want to be stuck with me in a car either. I can't tell a joke worth a damn and all my stories are boring."

Greg is startled into a chuckle. "You need to get out more."

"I'm trying. It's hard though . . ." She pauses. When she speaks again her tone is once more brisk, efficient, practical. "Anyway, I'll send you the information on my flight so you can make the arrangements."

"Okay." He knows he ought to say something like 'Love you, Mom' or 'I'm looking forward to seeing you' or sentiments of a similar nature but he doesn't have it in him.

"I love you, Greg." She says it simply, so he knows she means it, she's not trying to wind him up.

"See you in a couple of weeks," he says, and ends the call.

He takes a ride down to the barn afterward. It's dark by now of course and cold, but he wants out of the house for a while.

Sarah's had someone working on the place. There's insulation in the walls and a simple woodstove installed; the electricity's still being put in, but progress is being made. In one corner is a bed with a couple of pillows and some old quilts. He hasn't stayed out here yet, but he'll give it a dry run before Thanksgiving just in case he has to come here. No way does he want to freeze to death while escaping his mother's clutches; better to discover now what he needs to survive.

Greg puts the lantern on the floor, sits on the bed and tries not to think about holidays past. He honestly cannot remember a single season that held anything resembling joy or happiness, not once he was past the age of three anyway; it was always an endurance test of some kind to see if he could measure up to some impossible standard of perfection, and inevitably he lost. Now he's headed for a long, emotionally charged weekend with his psychologist's marriage navigating rough seas, her husband struggling through a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder with _his_ therapist in tow, the girlfriend and her grandfather coming for dinner, and to top it off, his mother staying the whole weekend at his own bequest.

_I'd better put in a large supply of beer, _he thinks. _Bring my guitar and keyboard and the Coleman lantern. It'll be good to have a chance to practice_.

A sound makes him look up. Gene stands in the doorway, lantern in hand.

"Wow," he's saying, and Greg realizes he's looking at the Chevelle. "She's a beauty." There's real admiration in his words. "Jay does great work."

"That he does," Greg says, keeping an eye on the other man. Gene comes in and shuts the door behind him. He sets the lantern on a horizontal stud and folds his arms, looking at Greg. In the mellow light his strong features are impassive, unreadable.

"You're worried about Thanksgiving," he says. "Your mom coming up and all."

Greg shrugs. "Maybe," he says, noncommittal.

"I'm just saying this for you to consider," Gene says. "At least you get to see her." He puts a hand on Barbarella's hood. "I haven't seen my family at any holiday for the last decade."

"Some people might think that's a good thing," Greg says. "Seriously, if you want to trade, I'd be happy to put up with your family and send my mom to Nebraska."

"That's something you won't ever have to worry about." Gene sits on the workbench next to the car. "My old man's decided I'm dead to all of them." He looks down at his hands. "I still visit my brothers because they like defying the bastard when they know they won't get called on it, but . . ." He falls silent.

"Why?" Greg keeps his distance. Gene doesn't look up.

"My dad told me he didn't want me marrying Sarah. I told him to go fuck himself. He was not thrilled by my response."

In spite of himself Greg snorts in amusement. "Yeah. Mine was that way too."

Gene nods, gives him a brief smile that fades as quickly as it forms. "I've never regretted that decision, it was the right one. But that doesn't make it any easier when there's a whole generation of my extended family growing up that I probably won't ever get to know, and they won't know me." An expression of pain crosses his dark features; then it's gone. "Besides that, I'd like to make sure my mother's okay, you know? Evan and Kyle tell me she's doing fine, but it's not the same as talking to her myself. They were out of the house before Dad started drinking hard and smacking her around, so they don't know what went on. What's probably still going on." He stares at the floor.

"You ever told Sarah any of this?" Greg dares to ask. Gene shakes his head.

"Not all of it, no. She already feels enough guilt about our marriage causing so much trouble when it wasn't her fault in the first place."

"You idiot, she thinks she has to make it up to you somehow because you lost your family by marrying her," Greg says, too disgusted by this display of ignorance to be anything but blunt no matter what the consequence. "Haven't you ever asked her how she sees herself in this whole megillah?"

Gene lifts his head. He looks genuinely surprised. "She knows she doesn't owe me—that's crazy!"

"Not according to her," Greg says. He gets up off the bed and picks up the lantern. "She's trying to make up for what she thinks you lost by being a perfect wife. If you weren't so busy feeling sorry for yourself you would've noticed it a long time ago."

"She told _you_ this?" There's a bitterness in the question that warns Greg this is dangerous territory. If he plows through it heedlessly it could have repercussions for Sarah, and while he doesn't really care what Gene might do to him, he won't have her hurt if he can help it.

"I don't think she meant to say anything," he says. "She was illustrating a point."

"And that would be?"

Greg goes to the back door. "Everything's a tradeoff," he says, and makes his escape before Gene can say another word.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**

**_Go fellow NaNo writers! Halfway there! Keep writing!_**


	11. Chapter 11

_November 25__th_

_4 p.m._

"For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful."

Greg watches everyone at the table while Gene pronounces these words. His mother has her head bowed and murmurs "Amen" afterward, as does Lou; Sarah and Roz say nothing. Gordon is watching the company as well, and gives Greg a keen, amused look. Gene stands up and reaches out for the platter of turkey slices to begin the ritual of passing food.

It comes by in an endless stream: dark and white meat, mashed potatoes, dressing, gravy, cranberry relish, and the casseroles: green bean, sweet potato, spinach-artichoke, and a pan of ricotta cheese lasagna contributed by Lou, fragrant with garlic and basil. There are deviled eggs, apple salad, a salad made with thin slices of hanger steak, romaine, fresh spinach and raspberry vinaigrette; dinner rolls and buttermilk corn sticks and black walnut maple muffins, bread and butter pickles, olives, spiced peaches, stuffed mushrooms, and a bowl of savory spiced nuts. It's insane, this vast amount of food for seven people, but Greg knows for a fact Gene and Sarah took twice this much into the village to donate to the local food pantry. So he fills his plate and enjoys the work of a roomful of good cooks—Sarah, Roz, his mother, Gordon, and Gene all contributed-and keeps his opinions to himself. Until . . .

"Gregory, you remember the year we were stationed in Japan," his mother says. "You were just a teenager. What a strange Thanksgiving that was! We couldn't get a turkey from the px and ended up eating fish instead. Your father was furious." She smiles as if it's a fond memory. Greg clutches his fork.

"Nothing like sushi to go with gravy from a can," he says, striving for a light tone, pushing mashed potatoes around his plate.

"When we were out on the line during the holidays we'd joke around about Thanksgiving MREs with cranberry relish on top," Gene says quietly. "It meant a lot to get real turkey with all the trimmings, but we didn't make it to the special dinners if we were too close to the front."

Blythe nods, her expression sympathetic. "That must have been very hard for you. John often had to miss the holidays. The military life can be a difficult one that way."

"No shit," Greg mutters, and earns a reproving look from his mother.

"I understand you moved quite frequently," Gordon says, helping himself to the spinach-artichoke casserole. "That must have been quite an ordeal for everyone involved."

"Oh my goodness, you have no idea!" Blythe laughs. "I can still pack up an entire house in one day, I'm sure."

"Wow," Roz says in genuine admiration. "That's amazing, Mrs. House."

"Blythe, please," his mother says, smiling. She's taken a shine to both Roz and Lou, a sentiment reciprocated by both parties. Greg is grateful for small miracles. "It's nothing, really. Just something you learn to do when you're married to a military man."

Greg opens his mouth to add a pithy comment and finds Gordon watching him, brows raised in interest. So he says it anyway, with a touch of defiance. "Along with looking the other way when your son's being treated like crap."

There, he's dropped the first clanger. The easy flow of conversation comes to a grinding halt. Blythe's face falls. Gene gives him a look that could best be described as resigned. Roz looks right at him, her gaze direct; she's not trying to shut him up, she's concerned about him. Lou's expression is shuttered, but there's disapproval there. Gordon looks expectant. And Sarah?

"It is a well-known rule in this household that conversations at the table are not an opportunity for arguments or unpleasant exchanges of any kind," she says quietly. "No exceptions. Please pass the cornbread."

"_Gregory,_" his mother says in distress. Oh, he knows that tone of old; she used it any time he and Dad would fight during meals. The tears will be next, he knows it. He says nothing, only puts down his fork. There is an awkward silence for a few moments. Then Gordon says,

"A fine rule, Sarah. In that spirit, may I ask who baked the—what are they called again, cornsticks? I've never had anything like them before, they're quite delicious."

The conversation resumes with something like relief. Greg feels like he's been slapped, hard. He stares at his plate, his appetite vanished. Then he gets up, moves his chair out, and limps into the kitchen. He hears his mother call after him and ignores her, pausing just long enough to grab some extra dinner rolls. He puts on his jacket, stuffs the rolls in his pockets and goes out to the ATV waiting by the back door. He hesitates, shakes his head, starts it up, and heads for the barn.

It doesn't take long to get there. He pushes the door open and goes in, turns on the forced-air heater, dumps the jacket on the bed, rummages for a roll, and takes a beer out of the cube fridge. It is blessedly silent here, no bustle, no chat, no pretense, no hypocrisy. He settles in, pops the top on the brew, takes a bite of bread, and listens to the heater blasting hot air. It's a comforting white noise sound. As soon as it's warmed up, he'll get the woodstove started and haul out the keyboard to keep himself entertained.

He's just started the kindling under the wood when there's a knock at the door—three taps, light and impatient. Greg straightens. "Nobody here but us escaped turkeys," he yells.

"It's Gene," the visitor says. That's something of a surprise. Greg considers sending him away, but then it is Gene's barn. Kinda silly to banish him from his own property. He goes to the door and opens it.

"Did Sarah send you?" he asks. Gene shakes his head as he comes in. There is a fine dusting of snow on his shoulders; the predicted storm has arrived and is supposed to dump something like six inches in the next twelve hours.

"No, I'm here on my own." He peels off his jacket and hangs it up by the door on a nail. "Okay if I grab a brew?"

They sit in battered old easy chairs by the woodstove, drinking beer and staring into the fire. Finally Gene stretches a little. "Got an ax I can borrow?" he asks. Greg stares at him.

"You want to chop wood?"

"No, I want to play some music," Gene says. One corner of his mouth quirks up a little. "I don't feel like traipsing back to the house to get the Gibson."

"It's in the corner," Greg says, wondering where this is leading. It doesn't feel like Gene is glad-handing him, but it seems odd that he's the one out here and not Sarah, or even Roz.

Soon enough Gene is plugging in the amp and tuning up, his touch light. He looks genuinely content. Maybe holiday dinners are filled with emotional pitfalls for him too. He strums softly, then starts a song.

"As I was slowly passing an orphan's home today/I stopped for just a little while to watch the children play . . ."

It takes Greg a moment to place it. Then he can't help but smirk at the sly poke at him, done with humor and wit, exactly to his taste.

"I'm nobody's child," he joins in on the chorus, "I'm nobody's child, just like a flower, I'm growin' wild . . ."

Gene offers him his pirate's smile, white teeth flashing in his dark face. They sing harmony and trade off on the verses till they get to the end, where they riff the last measures and ham it up a little before letting it go.

"Hey man, get your keyboard," Gene says in the comfortable silence that follows. Greg peers at him.

"What for?"

"I wanna see you lug it around the room, what else, genius," Gene says with some asperity. "You can play it, right?"

"Uh, _yeah,_" Greg says, offended. Gene gives him a 'so what's the problem?' look. Grumbling under his breath, Greg gets the Yamaha and sets it up, finally settling back in his chair with a fresh beer in hand. "Ante up," he says. "You choose the first song."

"Del Shannon," Gene says. Greg can't help but grin.

"Excellent," he says, and counts them off for 'Runaway'. Gene comes in exactly on time with the strummed opening chord, and they're off. It takes them a couple of measures to get into it, but by the time they reach the first chorus they're tight. Gene's got the perfect voice for the song, plaintive and resonant, and he responds to visual and audio cues perfectly, like he's psychic—exactly what a musician needs to make a session epic instead of just great. Greg sings the harmony, enjoying himself immensely. This is way beyond cool; this is actually fun.

"You know, if we had a drummer and a rhythm guitar player, we'd be a kickass pickup band," Gene says when they're done. Greg grabs a long swallow of beer and thinks about it. This is supposed to be his sanctuary, his home away from home, his bolthole. He doesn't want other people in it. He needs a place where he can escape when life overwhelms or baffles him, which means he'll be out here a lot. And yet . . . the idea of pickup band practice sessions is enticing. It isn't like they'd be using it every night for hours on end; he could afford to give up a couple of hours on a Saturday or something.

"Singh plays drums," he says. "I could ask."

Gene nods. "There are a couple of guys in town who play decent guitar," he says. "I'd ask Will but he's too damn busy and too far away. Now we just need a bass player." He looks pleased and kind of excited. "What else can we play?"

So they work out that they know 'Rumble' and 'Last Night' and 'Born to Run', '96 Tears' and 'Hot Rod Lincoln', 'Valleri' and 'Ticket To Ride', 'Green Onions' and 'Hello Mary Lou'. Somewhere along the way Greg finds a piece of paper and a pen and starts jotting down titles.

"'Flagpole Sitta'," Gene says suddenly. When Greg shakes his head he groans. "You're kidding! That song got me through so much shit back in the day!" He starts to play and sing. The words catch Greg, make him choke with laughter, grab him by the balls. At the end he puts it on the list, then tosses the pen down.

"Teach me," he says, and they launch into the song.

_I had visions, I was in them/I was looking into the mirror  
To see a little bit clearer/the rottenness and evil in me . . . _

_I'm not sick, but I'm not well/and I'm so hot 'cause I'm in hell . . ._

_Put me in the hospital for nerves/and then they had to commit me  
You told them all I was crazy/they cut off my legs now I'm an amputee, goddamn you . . . _

_Hear the voices in my head/I swear to God it sounds like they're snoring  
But if you're bored then you're boring/the agony and the irony, they're killing me, whoa!  
_

When they've got it down someone comes forward into the little circle of light cast by the Coleman lantern. It's Roz. She stands there with her jacket on, and her expression is unreadable. She doesn't say anything; she just puts a wrapped plate on the bed, then perches on the old lawn chair near the woodstove. Greg looks at her, then away.

"What else?" he asks Gene, who sits back, tuning the guitar.

They end up working on 'Santa Monica'. Roz listens to them, still silent. Greg can't figure out what she's thinking. Either she's so angry she's ready to kill him for walking out, or she's trying to understand him. At this point he really doesn't care. He's here, he's comfortable, and he's not going to apologize for leaving the table.

"I like that one," she says when they finish. Gene nods.

"Any requests?" he says, half-joking. Roz tilts her head.

"Yeah," she says. "There's an old Chiffons song I've always loved." And she surprises Greg by singing the opening verse of 'He's So Fine'. She's been practicing. Her voice will never be choir-worthy, but she's actually able to give them a reasonable facsimile of the melody. Greg watches her out of the corner of his eye. Her damaged hand is visible, the shortened little finger still wrapped to protect the stump; her burns have mostly healed and her dressings are reduced to a loose gauze wrap to protect the new skin. She looks very nearly back to normal, but he knows all too well the difference between 'very nearly' and 'completely'.

"Wow," Gene says, and there is real admiration in his voice. "That was excellent. You've worked hard."

She smiles a little and doesn't look at Greg. "Thanks."

"We could do a girl-group cover," Greg says. It is his way of complimenting her work and a tentative offer of inclusion. He waits to see how she'll take it.

"Only if I can tease my hair in a beehive," Roz says. She gets up, shucks off her jacket and goes to the fridge to get a beer. "So you guys are gonna start a band? That's cool. Jay plays bass. Want me to ask him?"

They are well into the small hours when Gene finally sets the guitar aside and gets up, stretching with a faint groan. "I'd better head back. See you in the afternoon sometime. If you think of anything else we can play, write it down and I'll do the same. We'll work up a list, get everyone together, y'know, figure out a time to practice."

Soon enough he is gone, disappearing into the black snowy night like a ghost. Greg won't look at Roz. "You didn't go home with Lou," he says.

"I was worried about you," she says, and takes the empty easy chair Gene was using. "I'm not here to scold you or anything. I just wanted to see if you were okay."

He nods, still not sure of her intentions. Roz makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of exasperation. "All you did was tell your mother what you were thinking and feeling, _amante_. It was just the wrong place, otherwise you had a perfect right to say what you did."

"You like my mom," he mutters, running his fingers over the keys.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm blind to what she might or might not have done," Roz says, impatient. She sits on the edge of the chair. "Are you going to stay out here tonight?" He nods. She gets to her feet. "Okay. I brought you some leftovers." She shrugs into her jacket and stands there, looking at him. It's clear she wants to tell him something, but in the end all she says is "Cover up the ATV so you're not digging it out of a drift," and leaves as quietly as she arrived.

_November 26__th_

_11:30 a.m._

"I don't know what gets into him at times," Blythe said. She sat at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in her hands. "One word or a look and he'd just . . . go away like this for days at a time."

Gordon nodded. "Can you remember what it was exactly that would set him off?"

Blythe shook her head. "It could be anything. I never knew what would cause it. His father hated it, of course. It only made things worse between them." She sipped her coffee. "I wish Greg could have understood that. Maybe he would have made more of an effort to be forthcoming."

Roz stood in the doorway of the office, listening: well, eavesdropping, if you wanted to get technical. Blythe's crisp, practical tones held genuine bewilderment, which angered and saddened Roz all the more. After a time she turned away, went to the front hall and got her jacket, and took the long way around to the barn.

The morning was clear and cold, with a vault of blue sky overhead and fresh snow under her boots, soft and pristine. Roz walked along, enjoying the slap of cold air against her cheeks. Her arm and finger ached a little, but that was all right. It was a reminder of how easily life could change in an instant, there were no guarantees, and if you wanted something you'd better take it while you could, because tomorrow might be too late.

There was music coming from the barn, growing more discernible as she approached. Once she reached the door Roz paused, debated whether or not to knock, then went in. If Greg had objected to her not giving him warning of her arrival he would have said something the night before.

The main room was in half-shadow, illuminated only by slanting golden rays of sunlight. Greg was perched on his bed, guitar in hand, an amplifier next to him facing off to the side. A nearly-empty bottle of beer sat on top of the amp. He was unaware of her presence, his head bowed; he looked . . . not sad exactly. Pensive, that was the word, and very much alone. He was playing some kind of chord progression that tugged at her memory. She watched his strong, clever hands move over the strings and shivered a little.

She must have made some sort of movement or noise however because he looked up, his whole body tensing. He shifted position to face her, the guitar falling silent. She watched him, not knowing what to do or say, afraid she'd scare him away with a single word. And then he began to play again—the same progression of chords, stronger now though, more confident, but with a sort of rough tenderness she'd never heard in his style before. As she listened Roz heard the lyrics in her head, clear as day.

_I never knew how complete love could be/till she kissed me and said/baby please go all the way _

Roz felt her cheeks grow warm, but she couldn't stop looking at him. Something in his gaze compelled her to face him.

_it feels so right being with you here tonight/please go all the way/just hold me close/don't ever let me go _

Greatly daring, she took a step forward. He didn't stop playing, those blue eyes watching her every move.

_I couldn't say what I wanted to say/till she whispered 'I love you' so please . . ._

He paused when she put her hand on his, stilling his fingers. "I love you," she said softly. Neither of them moved. Then his hand turned and caught hers. His callused thumb gave her palm a gentle stroke.

"I need you," he said. It took her a moment to understand.

"Come on," she said. She couldn't stop the smile curving her lips.

"I . . . want you." He looked up at her. The hesitant hope in his eyes touched her heart. _He thinks I'll push him away at the last minute. _Her smile widened.

"Come on."

He set the guitar aside and rose to his feet, his movements a little clumsy. Roz wondered how long he'd been here alone with just his music for company.

"You . . . you mean it?" He faced her. The words were hardly more than a breath. She let her smile grow. Her arms slipped about his waist, her hands clasping him gently.

"Let's go all the way," she said. He made no effort to hold her, only pinned her with his gaze. The vulnerability she saw there, the unspoken real desire, decided her. In that moment she knew it was right; it was time. She pressed her body to his. "Please," she whispered.

His hands came up slowly, cradling her face. "Yes," he said, his voice low and urgent. When he kissed her he tasted of malt and hops and himself, a combination she found impossible to resist. She opened to him, shivering as he touched the corner of her mouth with his tongue, his lips pressing soft little kisses here and there. When he started to lower her to the bed however she stopped him.

"Someone could come in," she said, afraid she'd ruin the moment beyond repair.

"Too damn bad. Next time I'll put up a sign that says 'if the barn's rockin', don't come knockin'," he growled, and eased her down. She laughed and settled onto the soft quilt, smiling up at him. He lay down next to her and leaned in, his hands sliding under her sweater as he kissed her. When he cupped her breasts she gasped, closing her eyes as his thumbs circled her nipples. He was shaking a little, his breathing hurried.

"Hey . . . it's okay," she whispered. Her hands slid up and down his long back. "Take your time, _amante_. Take lots of time." She kissed his throat to one side of his adam's apple, felt him swallow. When he pushed up her sweater she lifted her arms and let him remove it. He was careful with her injured arm, checking her dressing to make sure it was secure.

"You're okay?" His concern made her smile. She nodded, watching the play of emotions over his face, loving the gleam of desire in his bright gaze. "Good," he said, and eased her arm down as he took her nipple in his mouth. Heat began to grow in her belly and she arched her back, moaning when he tasted her, his tongue stroking the hardening nub. She reached up to tug at his tee shirt. He paused, made an impatient noise, yanked it off and tossed it into a corner.

"Anything else?" His expression revealed equal parts frustration and amusement.

"Jeans," she said, and laughed when he half-groaned, half-chuckled.

"We'll end up frozen solid," he grumbled. Still, in short order they were both naked. She watched as he stripped the patches off his thigh and placed them next to the foil-wrapped condom he'd taken out of his pocket.

"You carry a rubber?" she asked, secretly delighted.

"I've been living in hope for weeks." Greg set the TENS unit aside, his expression sobering. "I'm . . . I'm an old used-up cripple," he said after a brief silence, not looking at her as he wiped the sticky gel from his skin. "You should be out with someone your own age."

"I'm happy right where I am," she said. He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand.

"I don't understand how you could be. You deserve a better man—" He stopped talking when she kissed him.

"Someday you'll get it through that thick skull of yours that you _are_ a better man. We'll be fine whatever happens. _Uomo testardo,_" she whispered the mild rebuke against his lips and stole a kiss. "So shut up and take care of business." She pulled back a little and offered him a cheeky grin. "In case you hadn't noticed, dying over here. I've been living in hope for weeks."

He snorted with laughter, finished the job and took her in his arms. Roz was gratified to feel him press the beginnings of a respectable erection against her belly, despite his disclaimer.

"Wow. Pretty damn spry for an old used-up cripple," she said. "I'm guessing you were something else when you were a young blood."

"Smartass." He caressed her side, cupped her cheek as he mock-glared at her. "I'd have given you a run for your money."

"Bet you still can with that half hour handicap you mentioned a while ago," she said, and laughed when he gave her a light slap, more sound than force. Then he kissed her and everything else was forgotten except the song still playing in her head and the sensation of his strong, gentle hands sliding over her hips.

_(She lies on the faded quilt, the soft earthy colors complementing her sun-browned skin as it glows like gilded bronze in the pale winter sunlight. She is smiling up at him in utter trust and humor, her eyes green as a cat's, her strong features relaxed. He tucks a strand of sable hair behind her ear and eases his tongue into her mouth, even as his knee nudges her legs apart. She opens for him willingly, her hands caressing his back as his fingers part her folds, delicate as flower petals, hot and wet because of him, he knows. The knowledge excites him. When he strokes her with his thumb she shudders, her heart rate quickening. He works her slow and steady with little pauses, enjoying her reaction. Her tongue caresses his, her hips lifting as he brings her closer to release. When he breaks off the kiss and moves onto his back she goes with him, careful to straddle his thighs without putting pressure on his scar. He groans as her small fingers slide over his shaft, working him until he reaches out and gropes blindly for the condom, finds it, tears open the package and fumbles to put it on._

"_Let me." She takes it, her fingers stroking him as she rolls the latex on, guides him in place and takes him in. He gasps at the feel of her easing down until he's deep inside her, his hands holding her hips as she starts to move. The sensation is amazing, familiar and yet new; she is deliciously tight, sheathing him with strong muscles that stroke him as they move together. She rises above him, her features suffused with a radiance he's never seen in her before. Her hands cover his; he can feel the dressing on her mutilated little finger as it presses against his skin and there's sorrow in that touch, but her soft cries of pleasure more than make up for the sadness. They're the best music he's heard in years.)_

A little later the beer bottle atop the amp jumped and turned a few times, then fell to the floor, spilling drops of golden liquid over the wide boards. No one noticed.

_'Nobody's Child,' The Traveling Wilburys_

_'Runaway,' Del Shannon_

_'Flagpole Sitta', Harvey Danger_

_'Go All the Way', the Raspberries  
_

_**Many thanks for reading. if you're so inclined please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. **  
_


	12. Chapter 12

**_(A/N: MAJOR fluff warning. Don't yell at me, I'm just a typist for the muses and it's lousy pay anyway, go pick on them. Now that NaNo's over-and congratulations to everyone who won, you rock!-I'll get chapters out a bit more quickly on Mondays. Enjoy! -B)_**

_November 26__th_

_5 p.m._

When he and Roz finally return to the main house, it's already getting dark. Mellow light spills from the window in the back door, usually a welcoming sight; now it looks ominous. Greg turns off the ATV and gets up slowly, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"Hey." Roz hops off and takes his gloved hand in hers, leans in to kiss him, soft and lingering in a sweet echo of the afternoon they've just spent making love. When it's done she says "I'm right here, _amante_. Okay?"

He gives a hesitant nod, not sure exactly what to say but knowing she'll understand. And then they go into the house.

Sarah's in the kitchen. She's taking something out of the oven—a small cast iron skillet. There are leftover corn sticks baked atop a mess of pinto beans and chopped up bacon. For some reason it's one of her favorite comfort foods, though he can't fathom why for the life of him; she likes to put onion slices on top too. Gene occasionally joins her in eating this culinary disaster, but he's nowhere in sight this time.

"As if the fridge isn't crammed with leftovers," Greg says. Sarah glances up at him. She sets the skillet back into the oven and comes toward him. He watches her, wary of what she's planning to do. When she's just a couple of feet away she stops.

"Is it all right if I talk to Greg alone?" she asks. Roz glances at him; he nods, though he'd much rather have her there. Roz puts a hand on his arm for just a moment, then heads off into the living room, where people are obviously congregated to watch a movie—a western, by the sound of it.

"May I touch you?" Sarah asks quietly once Roz has disappeared. Greg stares at her for a long few moments.

"Yes," he says at last. To his surprise, she moves close enough to slip her arms about him and give him a gentle hug. He stands there, not knowing what to do.

"I'm sorry I upset you yesterday," she says. "You planning on staying for a while?"

"Are you going to ask me to leave?"

Sarah steps back a bit but doesn't let him go. She gives him a look of amused incredulity. "You mean, just because you said something awkward at the dinner table you think I'm going to kick you out of the house?"

He lowers his gaze to his feet. "That's the general idea."

He's not prepared for her soft laugh. When he looks at her she's shaking her head. "Your comment wasn't anywhere near offensive enough to get you that kind of response."

"Then why did you—" He stops, anger warring with confusion.

"Why did I correct you?" Sarah's amusement fades. She lets him go, but keeps a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on, let's sit down and talk."

They end up at the dining room table, the pull-down lamp creating a circle of warm mellow light around them. Sarah sits next to him. He's glad of her closeness, though of course he'd never tell her so. He knows she knows anyway, though. It's a good feeling.

"Growing up in my parents house I endured battles at the dinner table, sometimes words, sometimes actual physical altercations," Sarah says finally. "My father would insist on us eating together, then use supper time to rip us to shreds and start fights. We weren't allowed to leave until he said we could, and he would keep us there for hours. When we were kids we couldn't do much about it except just endure the ordeal, but as we got older we started showing up drunk or stoned to try to deal with it when Dad forced us to show up, which only made things worse because inhibitions went right out the window." Sarah looks down at the table. "There were fights, verbal and physical, real barneys. More than once the entire table went flying, which meant none of us got anything to eat until the next day. And that's if someone remembered to buy groceries instead of drugs or booze, which wasn't too often. So I tend to over-react when it comes to unpleasantness at the dinner table." She lifts her gaze to his. "You should know what you said wasn't wrong. It was just a case of bad timing and it hit me on a raw place. I apologize if you thought I was angry with you. That was not my intent."

"So if I'd said it while she was helping you bake pies or set the table, that would be okay?" he ripostes, pushing her to see what will happen. "You're really that literal?"

Sarah shakes her head. "I want you to understand something, Greg. You are more to me than just a patient. I consider you a good friend and a part of my family, and I'm glad that's happened." Her hand comes to rest on his, light as air, comforting; he can feel the truth of her words surrounding him, a shield of affection and warmth. "But y'all need to realize this is my hearth, the heart of my home. I work hard to make it a place of welcome and comfort for everyone who walks in the door. Arguments or bad words at my table will not be allowed, I don't care who starts trouble, and that includes me too. I've excused myself from meals on several occasions, you can ask Gene."

Greg looks at the floor, fighting the urge to get into it with her. Truth be told, he knows she's right; she makes very few demands on him, and honoring this one is really not that hard. But the whole situation frightens him on a level so deep he can't seem to stop the anxiety it causes.

"When I was older, my father and I used to argue at dinnertime," he says. "There were always punishments for me daring to disagree with him. This felt . . . like that."

Her hand tightens gently. "And having your mother present made it worse."

He nods. Added to that is the fact that Blythe is here directly due to his caving in, and he hates the fact that he was so weak he couldn't say no.

"Why not take the opportunity to discuss this with her?" Sarah is saying. "Your mother is very concerned about what happened."

"She always did care more about what other people think than anything else," Greg mutters.

"There is an element of concern about appearances, yes, but she's also worried about you," Sarah says. "If you talk with her one on one or have me there to observe, you might give her a chance to say what she wants to say. Either way is fine with me."

"You really think I'm looking to start any kind of conversation with her?" He shakes his head. "I've spent most of my adult life ensuring it doesn't happen."

"And yet you invited her to come," Sarah says. "Give her a chance to talk without a tableful of people around. You might find there's a difference in how she communicates with you." She pauses. "Listen to her."

"No way," he snaps. "I've heard what she has to say all my life." Sarah shakes her head.

"Then you'll hear what you've always heard," she says. "Try taking off the headphones you're wearing that play the same old song, and you might find she's singing something a little different now."

"Weak metaphor, nice try though," he says, rolling his eyes. Sarah gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," she says, and goes into the kitchen just as Blythe enters the dining room. She spots him and trots over, looking worried.

"Greg, are you all right? You've been gone for hours!"

"'M fine," he mumbles, and cringes as she comes to stand before him. When she reaches out to put a hand on his arm he steels himself to stay in place. She withdraws her hand hastily.

"I'm sorry you felt you had to leave," she says. "But it did give you a chance to be with your girl. Did you and Roz enjoy each other's company?"

Her meaning is very plain. Greg stares at her, surprised. Blythe offers him a smile, her blue eyes twinkling just a little despite her concern. "I may be your mother, but I was a young woman in love once myself," she says. "Roz is a darling, and her grandfather is a wonderful man. You're very lucky to have them both."

"I doubt Lou feels the same way about me," he says.

"You might be surprised," Blythe says. "He thinks very highly of you."

Greg remembers the look of disapproval on Lou's face and says nothing. Blythe sighs softly.

"He's protective," she says softly. "You can't fault him for that, Gregory. It's a good thing, really. Now, have you had anything to eat today? You're much too thin and I know that isn't Sarah's doing, she's a wonderful cook. You just forget to eat."

To his bemusement he ends up sitting at the table with his mother over two plates loaded with leftovers and two cans of Coke (both placed on coasters, of course). When he was growing up she would never have tolerated such informality, drinking straight out of the can during a meal. Now he thinks of Sarah's words and wonders if maybe they really could be applied here. He gives it a tentative try.

"Haven't seen this before," he says, tapping the can with his finger. His mother raises her brows, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Where've you been, Greg? I hear this stuff is pretty popular."

She made a funny. Lame, yes, but still a joke. This is unheard of. He tries again.

"I meant drinking out of cans at the table."

Blythe looks at him, the humor receding a little. "That was your father's rule, not mine. I really didn't care. In fact, I wouldn't have minded. It would have saved me some dishes to wash." She picks up her can and takes a deliberate, prolonged sip. "Tastes the same anyway," she says. Greg sits there stunned.

_Dammit_, he thinks. _Now I have to keep going. I hate it when Sarah's right._ He takes a deep breath. He's shaking inside. "Mom," he says, "could I . . . could I ask you a few questions?"

Blythe puts down her Coke, her expression caught between fear and just a little hope. Greg thinks his face might bear an identical look. "Of course," she says. "Ask away, Greg." The amusement returns for just a moment. "Though I might not answer if it's going to get me into trouble."

That startles a chuckle out of him. She smiles and it reaches her eyes, those blue eyes so like Oma's and his too, and he knows then it'll be all right, no matter what happens next.

_11 p.m._

Sarah rattled the grate to shake down the fire, put another log on top, tossed in a couple of pine cones, replaced the screen, then sought out her favorite chair. She reached to the side and picked up her guitar, ready to play Greg to sleep. He was in his room, had been for a couple of hours now; it had been a difficult two days for him, a balance of bright and dark, hope and despair, love and sorrow. For someone with a still-fragile emotional resiliency this experience had taxed him to his limits, but he'd managed to keep his feet. She knew Roz had quite a bit to do with that; they'd come back from the barn with the unconscious, tender intimacy of new lovers, something that had gladdened Sarah's heart immeasurably. Best of all, after everything that had happened, with the confrontation at the table on Thanksgiving and their discussion in the kitchen earlier this afternoon, he still wanted her to give him comfort; the door was cracked open, his signal to her to play for him. She strummed a few chords, thinking of what to play. The first song had come to be the one she used to address the day's issues, giving her insight on what had happened.

When someone sat down next to her she stopped, thinking she would be asked to cease and desist by one of their guests.

"Oh," Blythe said softly, "please go on, that was lovely." She offered a tired smile. "So nice to relax this way after a long day, isn't it?"

"You used to do this too?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, not as often as I would have liked. I played at night—well, when John wasn't home, anyway. He liked to watch television or listen to the fights in the evenings, and my music bothered him." Blythe looked at her hands. "I always enjoyed having an hour to myself. I think Greg liked it too, though he never said anything."

"Do you play guitar?" Blythe shook her head. "Then perhaps you could sing something you like and I'll accompany you."

The older woman's eyes widened. "I—I couldn't," she said. Color rose in her cheeks. "It's been so long."

"Can't hurt to try. It's like riding a bicycle, you never forget," Sarah said, smiling. Blythe thought about it, and Sarah recognized that same intelligent consideration she often saw in her patient.

"There was a song Greg always liked," Blythe said finally, "an old one by the Ink Spots . . .'If I Didn't Care'. Do you know it?" She gave Sarah a hesitant look. Sarah nodded.

"Yes, of course," she said, and strummed the opening chords. Blythe came in exactly on time, her voice clear and true and sweet.

"If I didn't care more than words can say, if I didn't care would I feel this way . . ."

Sarah followed Blythe's lead, enjoying the feel of the old song as it filled the room. The house was silent except for the occasional snap and pop of the pine cones in the fire, a homely sound. _Peaceful_, she thought, and savored it.

"That was wonderful," she said when Blythe finished. "You have a beautiful voice."

"You don't have to be kind," Blythe said wryly. "I never was more than a mediocre musician."

"You're far better than that," Sarah said. "I'd love to hear you sing a little more."

"Well . . ." Blythe glanced at Sarah. There was a little twinkle of mischief in her blue eyes, so like her son Sarah felt a lump come up in her throat. "I guess I know at least one more."

When she began to sing "Gee, it's great after being out late, walking my baby back home," Sarah chuckled, appreciating the gentle teasing Greg was receiving. This Blythe House was a far cry from the distant, anxious woman she'd met nearly a year ago.

The song was almost over when Greg limped past Sarah and claimed his easy chair. He wore a bathrobe over his tee shirt and sleep pants and his hair was a little ruffled. When the lyric was finished Blythe turned to her son.

"What's wrong, dear? Can't sleep?"

"Not with all this caterwauling going on," he groused, but it was obvious his heart wasn't in it.

"You used to like my singing you to sleep," Blythe said, ignoring his dour look. "In fact when you were very small, there was one song you used to make me sing over and over until you fell asleep."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Jesus, don't inflict that stupid old tune on us."

"Do tell," Sarah said. Blythe shot her a conspiratorial glance.

"Just follow my lead," she said. Sarah nodded, biting back a laugh at Greg's look of alarm.

"Mom—"

"If you go down in the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise," Blythe sang softly. "If you go down in the woods today, you'd better go in disguise . . ."

Sarah strummed along as Greg put a hand over his eyes, obviously mortified.

"Picnic time for teddy bears, the little teddy bears are having a lovely holiday . . ."

When the song ended Greg stood up. "If it's all right with you two, I'll be going now that my manhood has been completely cut off and stuffed in a lockbox under my mother's bed."

"Oh, sit down," Blythe said. "We're just having a little fun with you, dear. Don't be such a grump."

Greg slowly lowered into the chair, glaring at his mother. His lips twitched. "Any more humiliations in store?"

"It's not humiliating to remember something so nice," Sarah said. She picked a chord, thinking of her grandmother sitting at the piano playing hymns and the occasional classical piece.

"Did your mother sing to you, Doctor Goldman?" Blythe was asking.

"Call me Sarah, please. No ma'am, she didn't," Sarah said quietly. "My grandmother often played the piano at night, though. It was a nice way to fall asleep." _Because it meant no one would be crawling into bed with me later on. _She let the memory of relief wash through her, and deliberately changed the tone of the conversation. "She did teach me a wonderful song though. It's perfect for this time of year."

"Sarah, if I'm allowed to use your first name, you can surely drop the formalities with me as well. I'm just Blythe." She smiled a little. "Would you sing your song for us?"

Greg groaned."Mom, don't encourage her!"

"Oh shush, you," Blythe said, flapping a hand at him. "Go on, Sarah." She smiled encouragingly. Sarah returned the smile and shot Greg a raised brow as she played the opening chord.

"I want a hippopotamus for Christmas, only a hippopotamus will do . . ."

Much to Sarah's surprise Blythe joined in, laughing a little. Sarah backed off a little to give Blythe the lead, enjoying the blend of their voices. Greg sat back in the chair listening, his eyes bright with amusement.

"Mom says the hippo would eat me up, but then/Teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian," Blythe sang with Sarah. "There's lots of room for him in our two-car garage,/I'd feed him there and wash him there/and give him his massage . . ."

"God, welcome to hell," Greg moaned when the song was done, but he was trying not to smile. "Remind me never to let you two get together ever again." He ran a hand through his hair. "What's next, 'The Good Ship Lollipop'?"

"I'd say a glass of warm milk would improve someone's disposition," Blythe said, and Sarah laughed.

"Only if it has a shot of Booker's in it," Greg said. He rubbed his thigh in an absent sort of way. Sarah realized he'd probably taken off the TENS unit, something he often did at night to reduce the wear and tear on the skin around the scar. Without speaking she set the guitar aside, got up and went to the downstairs bathroom. When she returned Blythe was saying

"You always did learn songs so quickly. I'd often find you sitting at the piano picking out tunes you'd heard on the radio."

Sarah walked over to Greg and held out the glass of water and sleeping pill. He took them both without comment. Blythe's good humor vanished.

"What are you giving him?" she asked, frowning. "Is it really necessary to medicate him for sleep?"

"Is it really necessary for you to stick your nose in my business?" Greg snapped. Sarah took a steadying breath. _Be careful. Defuse but don't stifle. This is a chance for them both to open up a little more._

"Since Greg's been using the TENS unit he's had little need for sleeping pills," she said quietly. "With Gene's approval Greg's switched to melatonin for occasional use. It works quite well."

Blythe blinked. "Oh—I see." She looked away. "It's just . . . well, never mind."

"Please say what you were going to say," Sarah said. A flash of fear crossed Blythe's features, but she complied.

"I'm . . . I'm sure Greg has already mentioned this, but . . . there was a time when I had a little trouble with a prescription medication, and . . . I don't want to see that happen to him."

Greg gave a harsh laugh. "That ship sailed a hell of a long time ago," he said, his tone openly derisive. "And it was more than just a 'little trouble'."

Blythe flinched. "Yes, you're right on both counts," she said quietly. "I . . . I just don't want you to lose all that you've gained, working with Sarah." She hesitated. "I'm proud of you." She said it timidly, as if waiting to be dismissed. Silence fell.

"Thanks," Greg said at last. He sounded subdued, uncertain. Sarah glanced at him. He turned his gaze away from hers, but not before she saw confusion warring with doubt and something that might have been just a little pleased surprise.

"So, we've all sung a song. How about you?" Sarah got up and handed the guitar to Greg. "Your turn."

Greg set his empty glass on the floor and took the instrument. He cradled it in his hands, tuning it a bit, and Sarah was glad to see both mother and son relaxing slightly. "Yeah, okay. Guess it's up to me to turn the tide of all this nauseating sentimentality." He played a chord, cleared his throat a couple of times, and began to sing.

"I'm gettin' nothin' for Christmas, Mommy and Daddy are mad/I'm getting' nothin' for Christmas/'cause I ain't been nothin' but bad . . ."

Sarah chuckled and Blythe rolled her eyes. She gave him a rueful smile, though she looked a little troubled as well.

"You always did have a problem with the whole idea of Santa Claus. You'd do your best to figure out how the whole process worked and bring me all these wild theories," she chuckled when the song ended. "Good practice for later, I guess."

Greg shot Sarah a piercing stare. _She doesn't get it and she never will, _that look said silently."And on that note, I'm outta here." He set the guitar aside and levered himself up. "Have fun trashing the last vestiges of my dubious manliness. See you in the morning."

Blythe got to her feet as well. "Good night, dear." She came forward when Greg would have turned away. "May I . . . may I touch you?"

Greg stared at his mother, his astonishment plain. After a moment he gave a hesitant nod. She leaned up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Sleep well," she said softly, and stroked his arm a little before she stepped back.

"Thanks," he said, his voice very quiet. Then he was gone, limping off into the shadows. Blythe watched him go. When he re-entered his room she returned to her seat but didn't sit down.

"If I could go back and give him everything he missed when we were moving around so much, I would," she said softly.

"Christmas is coming up in a few weeks," Sarah said. "You're more than welcome to stay with us again, if you and Greg agree to it." She offered a smile. Blythe gave her a keen look.

"I can see why he's made so much progress," she said. "I'm glad he has you." She patted Sarah's shoulder. "Thank you. Good night."

Sarah sat in front of the fire for a long time, playing softly as the flames died to embers, pondering the day's events and letting them settle inside her, until at last sleep tugged at her and she headed upstairs to bed, tired but satisfied. All in all, it had been a good day.

'_If I Didn't Care,' the Ink Spots_

'_Teddy Bears' Picnic,' John Walter Bratton & Jimmy Kennedy_

'_I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas,' John Rox_

'_I'm Getting' Nuttin' For Christmas,' Roy C. & Sid Tepper_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. **  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_December 4__th_

_11 a.m._

Sarah took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the oven, put her empty teacup in the sink and went into the living room. She didn't look at the snow falling thick and fast past the windows as she went by but she saw it all the same, and suppressed a shiver.

Greg sat in his favorite chair watching college football, still in tee shirt, sleep pants and bathrobe, a quart bowl full of cereal in his lap. Sarah sat on the end of the couch closest to him and tucked her legs up underneath her. "Can I talk to you about something?" she asked quietly. He glanced at her, brows raised.

"Yeah?" he said when she didn't speak right away.

"I . . ." She sighed and plunged in. "I accidentally sort of invited your mother to come up for Christmas."

Dead silence followed this statement. Sarah felt the unwelcome heat of a blush spread over her face. "I'm sorry," she said. Greg said nothing. "I did say it was up to you," she offered, and bit her lip. Bargaining was a very bad way to start this discussion. She took a deep breath. "You should know, before Prof left, I . . . I talked with him about what I did."

"Oh, I'm sure he arrived at some fascinating conclusions," Greg said. Sarah winced at the cold tone.

"Yeah, he did," she said. She rubbed her arms a little, wishing she'd put on a thermal shirt under her sweater. "I have mom issues, no surprises there. But I've been projecting them onto you." She hesitated. _Just say it. _"And maybe . . . No, I know it for sure, no maybe about it. I'm jealous of you."

Greg stared at her as if she had two heads. "Because my mother's alive and yours isn't?"

"Because your mother's trying to get closer to you," Sarah said. Greg's expression changed, grew stony.

"Don't even go there," he said. There was real anger in his voice now, a rarity for him. "Just don't."

"I have to," she said. "Please understand, Greg. What you do or don't do with your mother's efforts is your decision. I wasn't the one who had to live with her all those years when she didn't protect you. I'm not saying you owe her anything. I'm just telling you, I'm sorry for making a mistake because I let my own feelings get in the way." She uncurled her legs, put her feet on the floor. "If you want me to call her myself and tell her no—"

"Will you stop falling all over yourself to make things right and just shut up?" he growled, and set the bowl of cereal on the floor. "Jesus. Give me a chance to think about this before you start throwing options and opinions and excuses at me."

"Okay," Sarah said, and got to her feet, giving in to a craven urge to flee. "I'll—I'll be starting the wash, if you want to talk. If not-" She flinched at his glare and retreated.

He came in fifteen minutes later, while she was sorting colors. She kept her back to him and tossed a pair of jeans onto the darks pile, waiting.

"If you believe you'll be allowed to chicken out and not face me while we talk about this, think again," Greg said. Sarah bit her lip, but she straightened and turned around to look at him. He stood in the doorway leaning against the jamb, arms folded as he watched her. "The Brit told you to talk to me?"

"Yes." She raised her chin. "I was going to anyway."

Greg nodded. "I believe you. I also believe you think by confessing your error of commission you'll be let off the hook and all will be forgiven."

Sarah shook her head. "Nope." She moved to the old table by the mudroom door and perched a hip on it. "No expectations."

"Bullshit," Greg said with a fair amount of scorn. "Why say anything then?"

Now it was her turn to stare at him in incredulity. "You think I'd just drop something like that on you—have your mother just show up without telling you, because I'd be too embarrassed to admit to a mistake, or it would somehow suit my purposes?" she said finally. Greg raised a brow.

"You're saying you wouldn't?"

"No, I wouldn't!" Hurt replaced anxiety.

"But you've done it before," he said. Sarah felt the blush return.

"I deliberately made a choice to share your journal thinking it would benefit you," she said. "This is not that."

"What is it then?" Greg watched her closely.

"Wish fulfillment," Sarah said. "In part, anyway. Some of it was just impulse." She stared at a pile of socks by the washer.

"What did the Brit tell you?"

"He said I'm strung out emotionally right now and not able to see things clearly." _Finish it,_ she thought. "That I need to back off and let you work a few things out on your own, including how you deal with your mother." She looked at him again. "I said it earlier—if you want me to call her and tell her no—"

"That isn't backing off," Greg said. Sarah crossed her arms and kept her gaze on his.

"Okay, fine. I withdraw the offer."

"Anything else?" He was amused now, damn him. She raised her chin, feeling embattled.

"Yes. I'm sorry I fucked things up. Sometimes I make stupid, impulsive mistakes. This was one of them. Deal with it however you want, take it out on me later, whatever. It's none of my damn business what you decide."

Greg straightened. "Good," he said, and limped off. Sarah watched him go, her ire fading. _Maybe I was meant to just wait tables after all, _she thought, and recognized it for the self-pitying thought it was. She glanced out the back door window at the falling snow. Bob's farm was just visible through the thick flakes.

Half an hour later she settled her beat-up Stetson on her head and clicked her tongue at Blackie, the saddle creaking under her a bit as she leaned forward slightly. The big horse snorted and shook his head but followed her lead, moving out into the weather. Sarah guided him to the lane by the fence and settled in for a good ride. Despite the cold she was warm inside her big coat and scarf and an old pair of leather riding gloves, her world reduced to simple things: equine, snow, trail, black and white, literally. She tipped her hat at the farmhouse in silent salute and headed off into the woods. Later on there would be the satisfying work of grooming a tired horse and offering hot mash, followed by a cup of hot chocolate and homemade butter cookies in Bob's kitchen. All a stopgap measure, yes, she knew; still, it was what she needed. She'd take it and be glad of the chance to do so.

_7 p.m._

"So what should we play first?" Singh says after everyone's situated and ready to go.

Greg downs a long swallow of beer and looks at the other members of the pickup band. Goldman on rhythm guitar, Lombardi on bass, Singh on drums, and he's covering keyboards tonight though he'll probably take over rhythm guitar and let Gene play lead depending on the song. Greg looks down at his hands and notes with interest that they are trembling just a little. Excitement? Fear? A blend of both? He votes for the last option. He takes a deep breath and sets aside his beer.

"'Runaway'," he says, switching the keyboard to the Hammond organ setting, since it's the closest to the Musitron used on the original recording. "Del Shannon. Everyone know it?" There are hesitant nods. "Goldman, you're on lead vocals." Gene dips his head in acknowledgment. He looks nervous. "Okay, let's give it a try. We're in A minor. Drummer, count us off."

Singh picks up his sticks, sets the beat and they are off and running, a couple of initial stumbles but they catch on the third measure and it's solid after that, no rushing. Goldman's voice is perfect for the lyric, resonant and plaintive and he sings true, no sharping or flatting to hear himself against the instruments. Lombardi adds a good if pedestrian bass line, and Singh comes in on the chorus in harmony while maintaining a steady beat, a pleasant surprise. Greg keeps his trap shut; he can sing on pitch but has an unremarkable voice otherwise, he won't use it unless he has to.

When they've played through the song they fall silent. Singh sits back. "Not bad," he says, and takes a slug of beer. "Needs work."

"We'll do it again," Greg says. "This time, watch each other. When you're ready to come in, use a cue. Nod your head, move your ax, whatever."

The second run-through is better. They're more relaxed now, but still missing cues. Greg does not bother to hide his impatience.

"Pay attention," he barks at them when they come to the end. "Put your stuff down. Look at me, just at me. Follow my patterns and do what I do."

He leads them through a set of hand-clapping rhythms, stopping and starting at random. Within five minutes they're catching every signal. "Get it now? We need to watch each other that way," he says when the exercise ends. "So do it."

The third run-through is rougher but still an improvement. They're applying what they've learned, figuring it out. On the fifth time around, Greg feels that elusive click halfway through the first verse. _Fast learners,_ he thinks, and knows they're going to be okay.

"Okay, something different. Come on," he says, sharp and quick when no one says anything. They've got momentum now and need to keep going. "Doesn't matter what it is."

"All right," Goldman says. "Any of you know David Ball?" He deliberately emphasizes his twang. Greg rolls his eyes, but he asked for it, so he can't complain.

They end up listening to him sing and play "Thinkin' Problem," which is actually a pretty good song despite being country. At any rate, it suits their purposes nicely. Greg switches over to rhythm guitar and lets Goldman move to lead. Within three play-throughs they have it down, and the other guys are using cues without being prompted—still in a clumsy and obvious way, but they're doing it. Greg feels an odd sense of something that could be classified as satisfaction. He knew they'd have a good time, but this is already turning into something more. There is a chance, just a chance, they'll be more than just a sloppy pickup band playing in between beers. Time will tell.

Singh's contribution to their little repertoire is a garage band classic, one of the songs on the list Gene and Greg had made a few days before: "96 Tears". "My older sister had the 45," he says when questioned. "I always liked it."

Gene pulls vocal on this one too. His tone moves from smooth high-lonesome to teenage hormonal angst. Greg likes the way he puts a sneer of frustrated contempt in the prediction "you're gonna cry night and day"; it's perfect.

Back playing keyboard, Greg listens to the subtle warmth and looseness in their sound now, the audible evidence of good musicians growing comfortable with each other, and allows himself a slight smile. "What's next?" he asks when the song ends.

Jay comes up with "The Night Before," an underrated gem from the _Help!_ soundtrack. Greg switches the keyboard to electric piano and indulges in the chance to wail discreetly under Singh's decent vocal, while Goldman aces the middle eight's simple guitar solo. Now Jay's bass playing warms up; it's obvious he's a fan of Paul McCartney's walking style, and can do it pretty well. They run it through three times to nail the supporting vocal harmonies and by the third play-through they're solid, cues and all.

"Fuckin' fantastic," Jay says when they stop, and there's agreement and laughter. Greg drinks in the feeling. It's like the culmination of a successful diagnosis, that heady sense of utter completion, only this is better because there's music involved too, the best of all his worlds put together.

They go back to 'Runaway' before they take a break and it sounds great now, really rockin'. "Four songs," Gene says as fresh beers are passed around. "Not bad for two hours work."

After the break they decide on one more candidate from Gene and Greg's list—'Hot Rod Lincoln'. Jay's got the right voice for it and Gene lets Greg go for the lead guitar this time while he provides the sound effects. Appropriate to have a mechanic singing this one, too; Greg has the notion Jay's got personal experience with this kind of story from the way he's putting feeling into the words, and sure enough, Jay glances at Greg and over at Barbarella, then flashes him a grin that confirms Greg's suspicions.

After the song's ended Gene says "You know, they're looking for someone to play the Christmas party at the fire hall on the twenty-fourth."

Silence descends. "We could do it," Singh says finally. "One set, anyway. We need a couple of slow songs, but we could do it."

"We need a name too," Jay says. Greg sits back, listening as suggestions start to fly back and forth.

"The Four Dudes."

"No way man, they'll think we're queer! The Pickups."

"The Clueless Old Guys."

"The Nightstands."

"The Trashmen."

Gene looks at Greg. For the first time in a very long while, he offers a genuine if dimmed-down version of his pirate smile, his dark eyes gleaming. "The Flatliners."

Greg thinks about it. Typical medical gallows-humor; he likes it. "Yeah."

"Hey," Singh says, sounding pleased. "Hey, that's a good one."

"It's cool for you guys," Jay says. "I'm not a doctor."

"How many dead junkers have you brought back to life?" Greg says.

"Yeah, good point." Jay sits back. "The Flatliners. Okay. Cool."

They are agreed, and they have a name; there's a sense of something that wasn't there before, subtle but definite. Greg knows what it is. They're a team now, not just a group of people sitting in the same room.

"So do we want to play the party?" Singh asks.

"Of course you do," a soft voice says from the doorway. Roz is standing there watching them, smiling. She is bundled in one of Greg's sweaters under her parka, girlfriend-style. "You guys are excellent."

"You have to say that," Jay accuses, but his heart's not in it. Roz shakes her head. Her thick dark hair falls around her shoulders.

"No, I mean it. You'd be great. We'd finally get some decent dance music too, instead of listening to cheesy old Christmas carols. Go for it." She comes up then, slips over to where Greg's sitting and leans in to kiss his cheek. She smells of snow and cold and very faintly of flowers, probably her shampoo or body wash. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Think about it, anyway."

Later, after everyone has gone and they are lying cuddled together beneath a down comforter in the comfortable old bed, Roz says "I like watching you play."

Greg cups her breast under the tee she's wearing—also one of his shirts. He'll have to keep an eye on his clothes or she'll end up stealing everything, and then he'll just have to steal it all back. "Boring."

"No," she rubs his hip slow and gentle. "Not at all. You get this look . . ."

"Yeah, probably the same one I wear when I'm jerking off," he says just to get her going. She gives him a little smack.

"Smartass. I'm just saying. It's . . ." She searches for the word. "Blissful."

"Oh god," he groans.

"No, it's a good thing. I wish you looked that way more often." She kisses him, then gives a squeak of surprise when he slips his fingers into the cleft at the top of her thighs.

"I could look that way now," he says, rubbing her clitoris just to make her gasp. "If you'll help me out a little here . . ."

"Glad to," she says, and smiles up at him, an expression that surely trumps anything he can come up with. She takes him in her small hand, moving beneath him so that when he's ready, he can ease into her. "Follow your bliss, _amante._"

'_Runaway,' Del Shannon_

'_Thinkin' Problem,' David Ball_

'_96 Tears', ? and the Mysterians_

'_The Night Before,' the Beatles_

'_Hot Rod Lincoln,' Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen_

_**Many thanks for reading, and if you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out. It would really make my day. **__  
_


	14. Chapter 14

_December 9th_

_6:30 p.m._

"So are you coming for Christmas or not?" Greg waits, knotted with tension, for his mother to answer. He's been dreading this phone call ever since his argument with Sarah on Saturday.

"Well dear, that's up to you, isn't it?" Blythe sounds less anxious than he thought she would. "Doctor Goldman—I mean, Sarah made it very clear when she spoke with me that it was your choice. Whatever you decide is fine."

So Sarah had been straight with him about what happened. He isn't sure why he'd expected anything else; she's a singularly truthful woman. "Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Gregory." Blythe laughs, a warm, sweet sound, and he closes his eyes, pushing away that little flinch of pain he always feels when he hears it. "Someone's invited me to stay with them through New Year's, so you're not beholden."

"I see." Obviously she's moved past her husband's edicts about making friends. He's not sure if that's really a good thing for her, but she seems to think it is so he lets it go. She's capable of making her own decisions, just as he is. Anyway, he doesn't want to deal with taking care of her. He's got other things on his mind.

"Of course I'd love to spend time with you again," she's saying. "Just let me know what you decide, dear, so I can make my travel arrangements."

After the call's done he dials Roz's number. "Hey," he says when she answers. "Want to go out for dinner?"

"Hey love," she says. She's smiling, he can tell. "Sure. Meet me in town?"

"I'll pick you up," he says.

"Even better. I'd like that, thanks." He basks in the warmth of her regard. "Greg?"

"Yeah."

She makes a noise he recognizes as a chuckle. "What time?"

He glances at his watch. "Half an hour."

"Okay. See you shortly, _amante_." Her soft voice is a caress. "Love you."

Of course they go to Lou's. The place is jumping, full of holiday shoppers taking advantage of sales to get their gift lists whittled down. It's noisy but not unbearably so, and the air is redolent of basil and oregano, baked dough and pizza sauce. Greg breathes it in and looks over to find Sarah standing at their table.

"Welcome to Lou's. My name is Sarah and I'll be your server tonight," she says, and flashes them a dazzling smile, her sea-grey eyes bright with affection. "What can I get for you?"

Greg looks her over. She is wearing a black fitted tee and jeans under her white apron, a pair of comfortable sneakers on her feet; her auburn curls are caught up away from her face in a black stretchy band to cascade down her back, and tiny little diamond studs wink and glitter in her earlobes. She looks relaxed, confident and poised, her warm personality shining through, and he is mildly surprised as always to find he is glad she is in his life.

"Coke," he says. Roz nods.

"Me too."

"Okay, back shortly," Sarah says cheerfully. She heads off to stop by another table, this one full of younger kids raising hell with two harassed-looking moms struggling to keep them corralled. As Greg watches Sarah takes one of the toddlers, a little blonde girl, swings her up in her arms, and proceeds to go about her work. The sight of her with a child on her hip, laughing and talking, makes him look away.

"She'd be such a good mom," Roz says quietly. Greg glances at her. She is watching Sarah too. "I've always wondered why she and Gene haven't adopted a houseful of kids."

Normally he'd make some smart remark, but he doesn't want to cause Sarah any more pain than she's already in, even if she isn't around to hear what he's saying. Besides, after the weekend he's realized he's begun to see her in a different way, and he's not sure what to do about it. So he lets Roz's comment go. Instead he says, "I see you added some songs to the band's set list."

Roz gives him a look that says she understands his change of subject. "Just some suggestions."

"They're all holiday songs," he says. "No way are we playing all that drivel. At least 'Santa Baby' has potential. You could put yourself in a stocking for me and pop out singing it on Christmas morning."

"Hah, not likely. Listen, you'll be playing a Christmas party," she points out, amused. "People will expect you to play seasonal stuff. Come on, I know you like 'Little Saint Nick', I heard you humming along with the radio the other morning."

Damn, he's been rumbled. "Stupid time of year," he grumbles.

"Hey," Roz says. When he looks at her she offers a smile. "Not so bad this time around, I think." Her hand covers his. It's the one with the mutilated little finger. If she can say that in view of what's happened to her, maybe she's right.

Sarah shows up sans toddler, drinks in hand. "Two Cokes," she says. "Would you like to order, or go for something special Lou said he'd make for you?"

"Special," Greg says. Roz nods.

"Absolutely," she says. Sarah flashes them that wonderful smile.

"You got it," she says, and heads off to the kitchen, stopping on the way to take two more orders. Greg watches her go. _She has a social heart, _he thinks. It's not a new thought, but after the events of the weekend he's truly beginning to understand what she's given up to help him. The magnitude of her sacrifice is humbling and annoying as hell at the same time.

"What are you thinking?" Roz asks. "You look sad."

"She's started decorating," he says. "It's horribly depressing."

Roz tilts her head. "Sarah never puts up anything more than greens and a wreath, maybe a few candles," she says. "She and Gene don't decorate a tree, not in the house anyway."

Greg's ears prick up. He's known since last year this is so, but he's interested to hear the story behind the absence. "Do tell."

"She hasn't said anything to you either?" Roz sips her Coke. "I don't know why."

"Come on, I'm the guy who lives with them, I deserve to get the full story," he wheedles. "If you can't trust me, who can you trust?"

Roz stares at her drink, then sighs. "I mean it, Greg. I really don't know. Sorry."

He admires her discretion and integrity, but at the moment he wouldn't mind her bending the rules for him. "Spill."

"I can't, because I don't know." A smile glimmers around her mouth. "Unless you're talking about my drink."

Sarah takes that moment to return with two bowls of salad and a cruet of house dressing. "Main course is on the way." She looks from one to the other, brows raised. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if we're getting a tree this year," Greg says, all innocence, and doesn't even flinch when Roz thumps his left ankle with her boot. It's not a sharp kick but he feels it all the same. Sarah straightens. When she speaks her tone is perfectly normal.

"That's something we'll have to discuss with Gene." When she faces him the light in her eyes is dimmed a little, but otherwise she's unchanged. She glances at their drinks. "Need a refill?"

Greg hasn't even touched his yet. "What's the problem?" he says, and feels Sarah withdraw as surely as if she'd stepped away from him.

"I have a break coming up shortly," she says. "I'll talk to you about it then, if that's all right."

"That'll be fine," Roz says, even as Greg has his mouth open to object. "See you in a little while."

"This is ridiculous," Greg says as Sarah hurries off to minister to another table's needs. "What the hell's the big deal?"

"She knows, I don't" is all Roz will say. Greg glares at her but she refuses to be intimidated. They turn to their salads and eat in silence until Roz says "If it was you in Gene or Sarah's place, would you want me gossiping about your private life?"

"Happens all the time," he says, and spears some romaine.

"Uh huh," Roz says, unconvinced. She glances out the window at the falling snow, and Greg admires her profile for a moment. He can't remember why he ever thought she was anything less than beautiful, though he would never admit that to her.

"Stop looking at me like that," she says, but she's smiling. He munches his lettuce.

"Like what?"

"Like that," she says. Now she's blushing. Greg continues his regard, just to see what she'll do. Her eyes meet his, half defiant, half amused; they're deep green with bright sparks of gold, the color they turn when she's glad to be with him. He relaxes a little. So, whatever's going on, it isn't dire or earth-shattering. To get her going he steals a crouton from her plate and waits for a scolding or a smack on the hand, only to be surprised when she leans in and brushes a kiss over his mouth, tasting of olive oil and fresh basil and just a bit of lavender from her Burt's Bees lip balm.

When Sarah brings the main course—baked ziti—she takes a chair on the aisle so that she can face the two of them. Greg leans forward, ignoring the delicious aroma of garlic and romano wafting up from the plate.

"Tell," he says. Sarah gives him a resigned look.

"We just don't do a tree."

"Aaaaand . . . why not?" He watches her closely.

"I have my reasons and they're nothing I want to talk about right now," she says after a moment or two. She studies her hands. "But mainly it's because Gene and I both feel that a cut tree in the house is wasteful. And for us, it's a symbol of unrealistic expectations."

Greg takes a bite of ziti and considers her words. He can understand why they'd feel that way; he'd never cared for the trappings of the season himself, they made no sense and in the case of his own family, rang hollow of meaning anyway, at least later on in his youth. "That's bullshit," he says around the magnificent flavors on his tongue, and waits for Sarah to contradict him. Instead she tilts her head and looks at him.

"Maybe some of it is."

Greg puts down his fork. "You're agreeing with me to get me to shut up faster," he accuses. Sarah smiles a little.

"No, I just think you're right." For a moment she looks so sad. Then it's gone. "Please let me talk to Gene about it first, but if you really want a tree we can have one," she says, and gets to her feet to take their salad bowls. Greg watches her, frowning.

"That's it?" He doesn't buy it for a minute. "I'll find out, you know," he warns her. Sarah pauses in placing the bowls on the tray.

"I have no doubt that you will," she says. "Enjoy your supper," and she heads off to the kitchen. Roz gives him a 'what did you expect' look and digs into her ziti. Greg watches Sarah's slender back retreating.

"She's lost her mojo," he says, thinking out loud. Roz puts down her fork.

"What do you mean?"

"She took on too much over Thanksgiving and messed up with my mom and me," he says. "Now she's got the yips."

"Huh." Roz looks thoughtful. "You could be right. She's acting funny."

"I know I'm right." He takes another bite of ziti. "The question is, what do I do about it?"

"Try this: nothing," Roz says. "She'll deal with it in her own way."

"What she'll do is ride that damn horse to death and think the only thing she's fit for is waiting tables. No offense," he adds at Roz's mock glare.

"You're just saying that so you'll get some later," she says with a fair degree of accuracy, but she's smiling. "So how do you propose to help her get some confidence back?"

"No idea," he says. "It'll happen, though. I'll think of something." He looks at Roz. "We'll think of something. Right?"

"Flatterer," she says wryly. "Of course we will."

_December 10__th_

_12:30 a.m._

Sarah closed the door behind her and moved into the bedroom, kicking off her sneaks and taking the band from her hair. Gene sat up in bed with a book perched on a pillow in his lap. He marked his spot with his finger and looked over at her.

"You worked pretty late tonight. How'd it go?"

Sarah peeled off her tee and jeans, moving quickly. The blaze in the fireplace helped warm the room, but she was chilled from the ride home. "Busy. I didn't think there were that many big families with little kids living around here, and they all showed up at once." She unhooked her bra, eased it off and opened a dresser drawer, shivering as she dug out a long-sleeved henley. "Greg and Roz stopped by."

"Hmm." Gene turned a page as she went into the bath to wash her face and brush her teeth. "Shopping or just out on the town?"

"Just out, I think." Sarah slapped makeup removal cream on her skin. "It was nice to see them on a date. They're so completely unaware of how cute they are together."

"It's a wonder that old bed in the barn is still in one piece," Gene said. "I think they've tested it to the limit and back."

Sarah rinsed her face and winced at the dark circles under her eyes, the lines at the corners. _I look like death warmed over, _she thought. "No surprises there," she said aloud. "I'm glad they're together, it's about time." She dried off and grabbed her toothbrush, cursing under her breath as her cold fingers fumbled with the toothpaste tube. Once her teeth were clean she hurried into the other room and climbed into bed as Gene closed the book, set it aside and turned out the light. He lay on his side and stretched out an arm as she curled in on herself. The firelight flickered over him, shadowing his eyes and highlighting his strong features. It was a sight Sarah always treasured, though she'd never said anything to him or anyone else—just one of those little moments she kept tucked away deep inside.

"You need a thicker coat and a newer truck," he said. His hand slid over her belly, bringing her closer to his lean frame. "You're half-frozen."

Sarah let herself relax into his warmth. She slipped an arm around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. "You're the best heater in the house," she said, and took comfort in the little rumble of amusement his chuckle caused. "Greg and Roz asked about putting up a tree," she said. Gene paused in stroking her side.

"Do you want to?" he said after a long pause. Sarah sighed.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you?"

"I don't know either," he said. His fingers drew slow, tender circles on her skin. "Maybe we should. Maybe it's time . . ."

She shivered and snuggled closer. "If they want to put up a little one, I guess that would be okay."

Gene sighed, his breath stirring her hair. He caressed her hip, his big hand holding her gently. "I don't like seeing you hurting over this, Sare."

She reached up to touch his cheek. In her mind's eye she saw the burn barrel, the broken ornaments, garlands shiveled and black on ashy stubs of branches. With an effort she pushed the image away. "You either." She kissed his jawline. "Let's think about it."

"Yeah," Gene said, but she heard the doubt in his voice, and it was echoed in her own heart. "Okay."

They lay together for a while in silence, just holding each other close.

"Maybe next year," Sarah said finally. "I think Roz wouldn't mind having one at her place for the two of them, if we asked."

"Sounds good," Gene said a little too quickly. His relief was evident. "We don't have anything to put on a tree anyway."

Sarah nodded, relieved as well. "It would just dry out and make a mess. We can do the outdoor one again this year. That's—that's enough, isn't it?"

"I think so." Gene kissed her. "We'll have the tree at the Christmas party too." Sarah felt him smile. "The band's gonna play. I got the word from Dot this morning."

"That's great!" She returned his kiss, glad to hear some good news. "You'll be wonderful."

"We're not bad," Gene said. He brought the comforter up a bit more. "It'll be a good time."

She nodded. "And we'll have New Year's here." She closed her eyes. "Definitely a good time," she said, and put her hand over Gene's.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	15. Chapter 15

_**(A/N: be warned, this chapter contains a paragraph with a memory of child abuse some may find disturbing or upsetting. -B)**_

_December 13__th_

_6 p.m._

Greg comes into the house, stomping snow from his sneaks and brushing it off his coat. It's coming down thick and fast out there; lake effect storms have already dumped over two feet the last couple of days, now they're due for another foot or so, maybe more, and it's getting colder. He stopped at the store on the way home to grab necessities-beer and chips, Coke and pizza rolls, and plenty of eggs, milk, bread, and coffee because he knows Sarah will want them. He threw in two big bags of chocolate and a box of tea as well. If they do get snowed in he doesn't need a woman desperate for serotonin on his hands with no choccy goodness in the house. Undoubtedly Gene would agree if asked.

As Greg is putting things away, Sarah comes in the back door. She wears her old black Stetson and what he now knows is a barn jacket, a green scarf wound around her neck that matches the mittens on her hands. She dusts herself off, hangs up her gear, shucks off her boots and comes into the kitchen, still wearing the hat. With her hair in Pippi Longstocking braids, one of Gene's old flannel shirts over her black sweatshirt, worn jeans and thick socks, she looks like the farm girl she once was and still is to some extent.

"You and that horse are gonna end up buried in a snowdrift till summer if you keep riding in this weather," Greg says, stuffing the pizza rolls in the freezer.

"Didn't ride today, the snow's too deep and more on the way," Sarah says. "I went over to talk with Bob for a while. He gets lonely now that Ardyth's gone, and I miss talking with farm people now and then." She takes a covered pan out of the fridge and pops it into the oven. "Supper will be ready in a few minutes."

Greg's already peeked in the pan to find baked lasagna ready to be heated through. He nods, placing bottles of beer in the fridge. "I had some good news today."

"What's up?" Sarah hangs the Stetson on the apron hook by the oven so the felt can dry out and not lose its shape.

"Wirth says I have my hours." He doesn't look at her. "She faxed the paperwork on Friday. I should be up for review and reinstatement in a couple of weeks, just after Christmas probably. If we can go anywhere without a sled and a team of huskies."

Silence greets this statement. Greg turns around, a little surprised at the lack of response, and finds Sarah standing there staring at him, her sea-grey eyes wide. And then she shoots her arms up into the air and starts jumping up and down.

"YES!" she cheers. "YES YES YES! I knew you could do it, I knew it!"

The next thing he knows he is enveloped in a gentle hug. "I'm so proud of you!" she is saying, and she means every word, he can tell. He stands there frozen, not knowing what to say, unwilling to admit that maybe he was hoping she'd do this—show him not just with words but with touch too that she's happy for him. Slowly his arms come up and he almost reciprocates her embrace but he hesitates, afraid even after all this time that she'll reject him, push him away. His mother had never welcomed touch of any kind, only the most distant and fleeting forms when necessary.

"It's okay," Sarah says, her voice softer now, encouraging. He puts his arms around her loosely, gives her an awkward pat, then steps away. She lets him go, but takes his hands in hers.

"This calls for a celebration," she says, and tightens her fingers on his gently before releasing them. Then she darts into the living room to yell into the office. "Hey Gene!"

They end up drinking champagne. "We'll get more before New Year's," Sarah says, and takes the last filled glass. "To Doctor Gregory House."

"Doctor Gregory House," Gene says, flashing a genuine smile of congratulations.

"How he'll find the wherewithal to bribe those examiners into setting him loose once more on an unsuspecting patient population, no one knows," Greg says, and they clink glasses and drink.

They kill one bottle and have another one with dinner. Never has lasagna tasted so good. By the end of the meal they are all in a congenial mood, heightened by alcohol and full bellies and the satisfaction of being inside a warm comfortable house on a cold snowy night. At some point the phone rings and Gene takes the call; it's a patient, so he goes back into the office while Greg and Sarah work in the kitchen. This consists mostly of Greg supervising Sarah, but he deigns to fill up the dishwasher with tableware, parked in a chair while Sarah hands him items.

"Have you told Roz?" Sarah asks while she's rinsing plates. Greg nods.

"I called her from work," he says, and glances at Sarah. Normally he would have told his news to her first. To his surprise she looks pleased rather than upset.

"Too bad the weather's so awful. It would be fun to have her come over and celebrate with us."

"Maybe when we put up the tree," Greg says, just to see what kind of reaction he'll get. Sarah pauses.

"Maybe," she says, and gives him another plate.

"You've already decided the answer's no," he says, guessing but pretty sure he's right. Sarah wipes her hands on her apron.

"I . . ." She is silent a moment. "I talked with Gene about it last night. We were going to say no, but looking at that decision now it's easy to see it was self-serving and—and fearful." She turns to him. "If you'd like a tree, we can get one."

"Why would you consider yourself fearful for not wanting a tree?" He watches her closely. She's a little pale now, her happiness fled.

"Let's talk," she says.

They end up at the dining room table. As they take chairs Gene comes in to sit next to Sarah. "What's up?" he asks, looking from Greg to his wife.

"I'm going to tell Greg why we don't put up a tree," Sarah says quietly. Gene puts his hand over hers but says nothing more. He flashes a look at Greg though, a look that very plainly says _be careful_. "No one knows about this except Gene, and my family of course. You can fill Roz in, but please don't repeat this to anyone else."

"Stop stalling and tell me already," Greg says, impatient with all this exposition. Sarah flinches. Just a little movement, but he catches it. Gene's hand tightens on hers.

"Easy," he says, and shoots Greg a glare. Sarah shakes her head.

"No, it's okay. He's right. I'm delaying." She takes a breath, and Greg sees her literally push herself to go on, as if she's diving into icy cold water. "When . . . when my brothers and I were little, our dad told us that he kept notes on us, on how we behaved, all through the year. Then just before Christmas he and Santa would have a meeting to decide if we'd been good enough to get anything. Doesn't sound too bad, huh?" She offered a slight smile but didn't look at him. "If we'd met the requirements then we could have a tree and there might even be something underneath it. I remember once . . . I couldn't have been more than three, we all got a real present . . ." She stops. "Anyway, if we'd been bad then Santa would tell Dad to burn everything."

Greg feels a shock of unwelcome surprise, followed by anger. He'd known it was going to be something cruel, but this is majorly nasty. "Burn—you mean all of it? Even the damn tree?"

Sarah nods. "Dad would make us decorate a real tree, and then take everything—the presents, all of it-to the big burn barrel in the back yard. He'd douse it all with gasoline and we'd have to watch until there was nothing left. He didn't do it every year, which was worse. We never knew what to expect. Sometimes he would wait until suppertime on Christmas Day and then decide to burn it all, and make us go without dinner too." She hesitates. "When I was eight someone gave me a kitten on Christmas Eve. I knew if Dad found out he'd put it in that damn barrel along with—with everything else." She falls silent again. Gene rubs her back, a slow, comforting gesture. It's obvious she's struggling to get the words out now, but she does it. "So I smuggled it over to the neighbor's and arranged for her to take care of it for me. At least that way I'd have visiting privileges." She blows out a soft breath. "It wasn't until a few years later that we figured out the boxes were empty. Burning them was just a way to make the whole thing even more fun for Dad. He couldn't be satisfied with watching us open presents that weren't there."

Gene lifts Sarah's hand and brushes a kiss over the back. Greg watches them, his mind in turmoil. "That's why you do the outdoor thing, with the seed cakes and food for the animals," he says. "Why you do the stockings." Sarah nods. He folds his arms and gives her a hard stare. "Jesus. If I'd known you were this fucked up, I never would have started working with you."

Gene looks as if he's about to lunge over the top of the table and go for him. Sarah looks down, but then he sees she's biting her lip and trying really hard not to laugh, though there's a suspicious glitter in her eyes.

"Yeah well, too late now," she says. "So now you know the truth."

Greg considers the situation. "We're getting a tree," he says after a moment, and knows beyond the shadow of any doubt that it's the right thing to do. Normally he wouldn't say anything—he's much better at stealth giving-but springing something like this on Sarah unannounced is not a good idea, especially after the memory she's just revealed. "I'll take care of it."

"No way," Gene says, equally angry and worried. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Unlike you, I heard every word without sentiment or prejudice," Greg says. "Your wife would be the first person to say that it's about time to make new memories to have alongside the old ones." He keeps his gaze on her, though it's tough. "You have my word," he says, feeling his way with care, "that any tree or presents that come into this house will not end up in a bonfire, ever."

There is a long, tense silence. Then Sarah says, "all right." She raises her gaze to his; her eyes say _I trust you. _Gene is giving him a look too. _Hurt her, you're dead _is his message. That's interesting, because both parties have the power to put a stop to this. It is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, knowing they are willing to give him this chance in their own different ways, because he also knows this isn't just about creating new memories. It's tied in with Sarah's loss of confidence. Maybe this will help. Maybe it won't. But it's worth a try.

"Okay then," he says, getting up. "Work to do. See you around."

"In case you hadn't noticed it's coming down three inches an hour out there," Gene says.

"Which is why the Flying Spaghetti Monster created cell phones," Greg says, and limps off to his bedroom singing 'It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas'.

Once he's settled in and has a good blaze going in the fireplace he calls Roz. "I need help," he says when she answers.

"Well, yeah," she says, and laughs when he gives a growl of mock annoyance. "What's up, _amante?_"

"Gotta find a big tree and something to put on it," he says.

"For Sarah and Gene? They said yes?" Roz sounds excited. "That's great! They've got cut and live trees for sale at the fire house, there's some really big ones and they smell so good!"

"Yippee skippee," Greg says with regrettable sarcasm, but Roz is off and running.

"We'll need lights, they have those really awesome LED ones now, I think the feed store has some in. I can hook 'em up so they look really great, you'll see. And ornaments and some snowflake garlands, and icicles, and a star to put on top—"

"Aw man," Greg groans.

"—and red ribbon with the gold edge on it, and maybe we could—"

"Hang it with used gum and dinosaurs and fishbones and rolls of toilet paper," Greg suggests.

"—have a train running around the base like the tree at Poppi's restaurant, and candy canes—"

"Oh my _god!_" Greg says loudly. "The electrician chick is a Christmas freak! It's—it's just _horrible!_ It's a disaster! It's hideousness on stale white bread with mustard! How could I have sunk so low as to associate with such a creature?"

"I'm not a Christmas freak," Roz says, sounding as if she is torn between offense and laughter. "Just because you think you hate it—"

Greg starts singing. "You're a mean one, Mister Grinch . . . your heart's an empty hole . . ." He gives an evil laugh. "Mwaaaaahahahahaaaaaa! My theme song!"

"You are _not_ a Grinch, dammit!" Roz says. "Knock it off! Anyway, you can leave the decorations to me. You do the manly-man stuff and get the damn tree up, I'll take care of the rest."

"Oh, I'll get it up all right," he puts a leer in his words. Roz gives a snort of amused exasperation.

"Leave it to you to pervert something as innocent as decorating a tree," she says, laughing.

"You can decorate my tree any time you want," he suggests.

"If it wasn't snowing so hard I'd take you up on that little offer."

"Hey, who are you calling little? Anyway, we don't have to be in the same room. What are you wearing?" He puts a lascivious undertone in the question.

"That's so corny," Roz complains.

"But effective," he says. "Come on, be a sport. You're lying naked on a white fur rug, aren't you?"

"Please tell me you're not at the kitchen table," Roz says. Greg settles back on his bed.

"Nope. We're all alone," he says, and unzips his jeans.

"I heard that." Roz is rolling her eyes, he can tell. "Jeez, you're such a horndog."

"Guilty as charged," he says, rubbing himself through his briefs. "Come on, show me what you can do."

"Okay, let's see . . ." Roz lowers her voice to a sultry whisper. "I'm lying on my bed in a long flannel nightie—"

"Whoa whoa whoa," he says, his expectations doused. "That's not sexy. What about a black lace teddy with skinny little straps? Or a cream silk slip with lace inserts over strategic areas?"

"Are you kidding? It's freezing outside," Roz says. "Besides, those lace inserts are scratchy. I always get welts. Let me do things my way, city boy. You up for this or not?"

"I want to be up for it, but you're killing me here," he whines.

"Oh, shush. Now let's see . . . there's a fire going—"

"You don't have a fireplace, I do," he says, just to give her a hard time. "Unless you burned dinner or something."

"If I'm making this up as I go along, I can have a fireplace! And I do not burn dinner, I've never done that when I've cooked for you, so shut up, buzzkiller!" she says, laughing. "Okay. I'm lying on my bed in front of the fire in a long flannel nightie with a row of buttons down the front . . . and nothing . . . under . . . neath," she lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. "I'm unbuttoning from the bottom up . . ." There's a rustling sound, and then music playing softly in the background, something funky—Lenny Kravitz, he recognizes the bass line. Greg feels a seismic shift occurring in a certain region.

"How many buttons?" he says.

"More than enough," Roz says on a little chuckle. "One . . . two . . ." He can just see her in some ridiculously demure getup with lace and rose-pink stripes, slowly revealing those long slender legs, the soft firelight flickering over her golden skin. "Three . . . four . . ." The words come out in breathy little sighs. "Five . . . mmm . . . should I go higher?"

"Yeah," he says, and liberates little Greg from his briefs. "Go higher, a lot higher."

"How much higher?" The sweet purr in her voice kills him. "Come on, tell me."

"Till you get to the end," he says, low and slow. "All the way."

"Okay . . . six . . . seven . . . oh!" There's that tiny squeak of surprise she always makes when he first touches the heart of her, and he knows what she's doing. He takes himself in hand and starts working, eyes closed, listening to her as she drives herself to the edge.

"Eight . . . nine . . . Greg . . ." The way she says his name makes him stiffen, his balls tight and aching. "It's open and I'm not wearing anything now . . . it's cold, my nipples are hard . . . but your hands are so warm . . . and they're sliding down over my belly . . . you're touching me . . . I can feel you inside me, _amante_ . . . so strong . . . you feel so good . . ."

He grabs a tissue from the box on the nightstand. A moment later he hears her moan, long and high, and it sends him into the home stretch. When his release comes it's hot and sweet and not nearly long enough, but listening to Roz cry out on the other end of the phone amplifies his pleasure, easing him into a light, mellow afterglow that he's pretty sure his woman is sharing.

"Still wish you were here," she says finally, after a brief sated stretch, the only sound their hurried breathing gradually slowing. "But that was fun." Her voice is warm and intimate, lazy with satisfaction. She laughs softly. "Told you flannel was a turn-on."

"I will never doubt you again," he says, and puts his arm behind his head, eyes closed. "We'll go do the tree and ornaments thing tomorrow after they plow the roads. This time either you'll spend the night here, or I'll stay over there. That way if we get snowed in we won't have to run down our phone batteries, we can wear each other out instead."

"That's a plan I can get behind, _amante,_" she says. "Now, are you tired or could you read to me just a little?"

Greg smiles. In the last month or so they've been reading bits and pieces of things to each other at night—poetry, a favorite passage from a book, something from the paper. There is a delicious intimacy to this simple act, whether they're snuggled together on a bed or a couch, or they're talking over the phone. It's something he's never really experienced before, and while he's afraid it won't last, he's also determined to enjoy it while he can. He had her breathless with laughter a couple of days ago, quoting from The Onion and DeadSeriousNews; two weeks before she'd given him a pleasant and wholly unexpected surprise by revealing she owns a little library of Shakespeare, Donne, Spenser and Pepys. "I had a good English teacher in high school," was all she said when questioned as to the origin of her taste in literature. It wasn't something he'd expected from her, but then she's proving she's anything but predictable or boring, and that's the real jewel of her character. She has hidden facets and he can't wait to find them, examine them at his leisure and explore their secrets.

Greg glances at his nightstand, but the only thing there is a medical journal he filched from Wirth's office. So he says the first thing that comes into his head.

"'If you don't get what you want, you suffer; if you get what you don't want, you suffer; even when you get exactly what you want, you still suffer because you can't hold on to it forever. Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.'"

There is a companionable, thoughtful silence. "Yeah," Roz says. "That's right. But at least you know that's how it is. Most people don't."

"You know it too. Your turn," he says, and settles in.

"Okay," she says. He hears a few faint thumps and the rustle of pages. Then her soft voice touches him over the faint hiss of the phone speaker.

"'Nor is the earth the lesse, or loseth aught./For whatsoever from one place doth fall,/ is with the tide unto another brought,/for there is nothing lost, but may be found, if sought.'"

He closes his eyes, listening as the woman he loves tells him that she knows he was adrift but he is found again, brought to her shore by the random hand of fate, and she is glad. Things won't stay the same, even though he wants them to; but in this moment there is peace and healing, and for just this once, it's enough.

**_Greg's quote is attributed to Socrates. Roz's quote is from The Faerie Queen, by Edmund Spenser. It was used to great effect in Emma Thompson's film adaptation of Sense & Sensibility, read by Alan Rickman. Check out the film sometime, it's even got Hugh Laurie in a small but memorable role.  
_**

**_'It Ain't Over Till It's Over', Lenny Kravitz_**

**_As always, many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would make my day.  
_**


	16. Chapter 16

_**(A/N: many thanks to anon004 for the excellent 'cotton temptress' line. I just had to use it! **_

**_My friend MissBates has a new one-shot fic up here at FF. Check out Morning Drill, it's a wonderful read and now at the top of my Favorites list. Great story! -B)  
_**

_December 16__th_

_11 a.m._

Sarah sat on the couch and contemplated the result of an hour's work. She had moved furniture, cleaned and dusted and put down an old sheet, all to make ready for the tree. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and swallowed on a dry throat.

It was ridiculous that something as simple as following an old custom could wreak this much havoc with her sense of equilibrium, but it was true all the same. Even that was an understatement; truth be told, she was scared. Every time she thought about what was coming, she shook so hard she had to find a distraction of some kind to get her mind away from the whole thing.

_I can get through this,_ she kept telling herself, but she wasn't sure that was true. She hadn't faced anything this big from her past since her mother had died, and even that hadn't hit her with full force mainly because she'd had plenty of distance from the events, the death and the funeral. This was different. Already she'd had several flashbacks and a couple of bad dreams. The last one had worried Gene with its intensity, although she knew that was actually a good thing—a sign her subconscious had decided to tackle the issue.

"But that don't feed my bulldog now," she said softly, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Greg spoke from behind her.

"Having second thoughts?"

It took her a few seconds to speak past the constriction in her throat. "I'd—I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't sneak up on me like that."

Greg folded his arms. "You want me to carry around an air horn? Noisemaker? Pot lids?"

"No," she snapped. "Just—just don't—oh, forget it." She got to her feet. "I thought this would be a good place to put it."

"Put what?" Greg's voice was mild but inexorable.

"The tree," Sarah said. She rubbed her arm absently. "Storm coming."

"Is that why you keep those damn things on your arm, for weather prediction?" The sarcasm in his words bit at her. She felt the hurt with some surprise.

"Maybe."

"Oh, come on. Is that the best you can do?" He was openly taunting her now. Sarah sat down slowly. She took the bandana from her head and ran her fingers through her curls, shaking them out. She noted that her hands were trembling a little.

"It didn't really matter, you know," she said after a moment. "What we did or didn't do, it was all the same to him. He and Mom thought it was funny, how every year we'd hope that maybe we'd make it all the way through and get to have a real Christmas for once. And we didn't even know the damn boxes were empty anyway." She heard the voices in her memory, sly, gloating. "Mom said we were like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football, always thinking it wouldn't get pulled away when we tried to kick it."

"What about your grandmother?" Greg tilted his head. "She must have celebrated this stupid holiday. Biggest event of the year for Jesus freaks, outside of Easter."

Sarah stared at the empty spot without really seeing it. "Christmas was way too pagan for her. We always spent the whole day in church sitting in the cold on those damn hard pews, listening to rants about how the world was going to hell for enjoying itself once a year." She shook her head, remembering the anger and mean-spiritedness and beneath it all, the loathing for and fear of the physical senses. "How dare people put a little brandy in their eggnog or stand under a sprig of mistletoe to steal a kiss?" She sighed softly and looked at her hands. "The only thing we'd do to mark the occasion was play carols. If I had a dollar for every time I plowed my way through 'Silent Night', I'd be independently wealthy. But at least it was music. That helped."

"So, no presents, no stocking, no flaming Christmas pudding?"

"Of course not." She smiled at the idea. "Someone gave us a homemade fruitcake one year. It was preserved with whiskey, and you'd have thought it was the damn devil's doorstop the way Grandma carried on. I snuck it out of the trash later and ate half of it in one sitting. It was delicious." She could still remember the marvelous blend of figs and whiskey, sugar and butter and vanilla, as fine and sweet as a summer's day. "I got sick as a dog and a pretty spectacular whuppin' besides, but it was worth it."

"Did it ever occur to you that you've been overcompensating all these years, with the cookie baking and the big donation to the food pantry and everything else?" The question was harsh but under it lay a fair amount of humor. Sarah regarded him with wry affection.

"Give me just a little credit," she said. He acknowledged this mild jab with a slight smile, his blue eyes intent. "So what about you? What were your Christmases like? Turnabout's fair play," she said when he made a face. "You want to play the psych version of truth or dare, you have to stand up when it's your turn, and no changing rules."

"Shit," he muttered. "Fine. One question. That's all you get."

Sarah nodded. "Okay. How did y'all all handle Christmas?"

He looks at her, obviously surprised. "I figured you'd want to know about Dad."

"I can imagine what he did with a holiday as emotionally loaded as this one," Sarah said. "Not even December the twenty-fifth could stand in the way of the relentless pursuit for perfection and control your father owned."

"Why?" Greg asked quietly. "Why do you think he was like that?"

"Maybe his own father trained him up that way," Sarah said, hearing echoes of a small boy's bewilderment in the question. "Maybe he felt his own inadequacies too strongly. Often when someone chooses a rigid, inflexible code of behavior to live by and impose on others it's because they're insecure deep inside, and they think they need those thick high walls to keep them safe." She paused. "What about your mother?"

"That's more than one question. Yeah, fine," he said when she snorted. He looked down, fidgeting a bit. "She tried to make things nice, but everything was always a power play. Dad could never let anything just—just be." He rolled his shoulders. "Nothing was ever good enough, never what he wanted. Mom would nag me to make something for him, which he'd inevitably mock and find fault with, and then he'd be sure to dump whatever it was in the trash where I'd find it sooner or later, since taking out the garbage was one of my chores."

Sarah nodded. "Did your father ever give your mother anything?"

Greg shrugged. "Practical stuff. Toasters, vacuum cleaners, a new lamp. Nothing personal, at least not that I knew about. If he'd given her a necklace or perfume she would have been in a state of ecstasy for weeks."

"What about your mother? Did she give things?"

"Yeah," Greg said. He sounded a little shamefaced. "For Dad she bought stuff like new pens or cap covers because she knew he'd at least tolerate that kind of thing, but for me . . . She bought me sheet music. And a guitar."

"Did you give her anything?" Sarah asked softly, and just that fast he closed up.

"Mostly fishhooks and the odd helicopter or two." His flippant tone spoke volumes. Sarah got to her feet.

"I sincerely hope you don't put a Blackhawk under the—our tree." She glanced at the empty space and tried to imagine something there vaguely pyramid-shaped with a piney scent. "Are you and your girl doing all the decorations, or is it okay to contribute?"

"What do you want to put up, miniature burn barrels?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a few pine cones and maybe some sweet gum balls," Sarah said, shooting Greg a dry look. "Yes? No?"

"Hey, it's your tree." Greg stood. "I'm outta here. Don't expect me home tonight."

Sarah smiled. "Gonna canoodle with your sweetie?"

"Oh, you rednecks and your fancy-dancy turns of phrase," Greg said, but he was pleased, she could tell by the look in his eyes. "You have my number. Just don't call it, okay?"

"Okay," Sarah said. "Say hey to the Heebster for me."

She waited until he was gone, Barbarella's roar fading into the distance, before she went slowly to the white square of folded sheet in the corner. Sarah walked over it with care to stand in the middle. She stayed there for a while, looking out at the living room, trying to imagine branches covered with twinkling lights and ornaments. At last she sighed, moved out of the corner, picked up her cleaning tools and went into the kitchen, feeling defeated.

_6:30 p.m._

"We're gonna miss all the good trees!" Roz couldn't resist throwing that line at Greg as they climbed into her truck. He glared at her, his blue eyes glittering like ice.

"Don't start quoting that stupid movie at me," he growled, but she knew his heart wasn't in it. "Let's just get this over with."

The lot was more or less deserted. Roz parked the truck and hopped out, eager to look over the selection. Greg followed her more slowly, favoring his leg. She waited until he caught up with her, then put her arm through his.

"I don't need you to be my damn caregiver," he snapped. "I slipped in the parking lot this morning, I'm not falling apart."

Roz gave him a sidelong look. His face was tense, his blue eyes pale and icy. It was obvious he was uncomfortable, and not just physically. "Maybe I just want to walk with my guy," she said. He snorted but didn't pull away. "When we get home I could give you a massage," she dared to suggest. He looked down at her, his frown turning into a reluctant half-smile.

"There's a thought," he said. "So let's get the damn tree and get out of here."

They wandered down the rows of offerings, with Greg making biting comments on size, shape and height. At the end of the fourth row they found the one they were looking for—at least Roz thought so.

"That's a Fraser fir," the lot attendant said. "Cut two inches off the stump and it'll keep its needles till way past New Year's, just give it plenty of sugar water."

Roz looked it over. The tree was about twelve feet tall, nicely shaped and absolutely huge, but it would fit with ease in the Goldmans big central living room. She glanced at Greg, who rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he said. "I could care less."

"We'll take it," Roz said, smiling, and watched as he paid the attendant. When the man took the tree to her truck she leaned up to kiss Greg's cheek. "Thank you," she said softly. He huffed and looked away, but the hard light of impatience in his eyes softened just a little.

She knew he'd had enough for the evening, so they went to her place because it was close by. It was pleasant to curl up on the couch together with leftover pizza, a big plate of fries and a couple of beers, Hellboy perched on her shoulder begging for bits of pepperoni and anchovies, and the tv tuned to an episode of World's Dumbest. Roz nibbled her pizza and enjoyed the feel of Greg's lean body next to hers. It never failed to amaze her that he was here with her by choice. She hadn't thought to ever have anyone in her life; she'd foreseen either being alone for good, or giving in to Rick's persistence and marrying him just to avoid loneliness, even though it would have been the mistake of the century. And yet here she was, involved with the most amazing man she'd ever known. He delighted and exasperated her by turns, tested her to the limits of her patience and brought her so much joy, at times she didn't know what to do with it all. His formidable intelligence often intimidated her, but his continual surprise at her willingness to love him gave her insight into his fears and weaknesses, and sometimes lent her the ability to help him around his own obstacles.

She knew he did not possess a heart of gold under his armor; he could be tactless, cruel and boorish, sometimes all in the same moment. He liked to push limits and tested her continually to see how much she would take before she lashed out or walked away. But to reject that aspect of his personality was pointless—it would be the same as disliking him for the color of his hair or his height. It was simply part of who he was, as essential to him as his ability to detect, analyze and solve any puzzle.

It mattered far more to her that he was a good lover, considerate, observant, inventive and unfailingly attentive; that told her who he truly was under the thick layer of deflection and sarcasm he maintained to keep people away. She knew she was privileged to be allowed so close, knew too it would be very hard work to get closer, but she welcomed the opportunity anyway and counted herself a fortunate woman. Most of the time, at least. On that last thought she smiled a little.

"I can feel you ruminating all the way over here," Greg said. "Stop it. You make me nervous when you think about us."

Roz stole a fry out of his fingers before he could eat it. "Don't be," she said around the fry. "It's all good."

"That's what makes me nervous," he said, and filched her slice. "Anchovies—who puts fish on pizza?"

"Someone who knows they taste yummy," she said, and took another slice from the plate. "I don't have unrealistic expectations. I understand you're not perfect. I'm not either. Just thought I'd let you know that, in case you hadn't noticed."

"So this is the Island of Misfit Toys," Greg said. "Always figured I'd end up there someday."

"I think that whole idea is a crock," Roz said. "They weren't misfits. They were just different."

"Oh, here we go," Greg groaned. "Please spare me the PC lecture all tarted up with candy cane stickers and shiny gold stars."

Roz rested her head against his arm and slid her free hand along his flank, enjoying the feel of his long thigh under her hand. "No, I'm not making nice. It's just that any real kid with brains wouldn't want a toy just like everyone else's. What's the point? Why be a tool? No thanks."

Greg looked at her. "So hanging out with me makes you not a tool," he said. Roz took a fry from the plate and offered it to him. After a moment he leaned forward and ate it, his gaze never leaving her face, bright and searching.

"I would hope hanging out with me makes you not a tool too. Anyway, you make me feel funny," she said. "Good funny. I like it. If you feel that way as well it would be great, but I'm not expecting anything."

He chewed slowly, drew in a slow breath. "Hmm . . ." He tilted his head a little; then he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, coated with french fry. Roz laughed.

"Yeah, that's really witty, nasty boy!"

"Hah, the truth finally comes out," he said, but he was smiling, the real smile he didn't use very often, dimple flashing briefly in his lean cheek. "And you're copping a feel."

"Why yes, as a matter of fact I am." She kissed his lips, tasting salt and oil. "Mmmm . . . my big french fry, that's you."

"Does that mean you're gonna eat me?" he leered. She sighed in mock exasperation.

"Are you sure you're almost fifty-two?" she demanded. "I think it's more like twenty-two."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," he said. "Let's see—wrinkles, check; what's left of my hair is grey, check; I have arthritic changes in my joints that make me sound like a bag of popcorn in the microwave when I stand, check; have to wear wires like a cheap imitation of the Six Million Dollar Man, check; and worst of all it takes me forever to get it up, double check. Oh, and I need two cups of coffee to come to life in the morning, and then I have to pee fifteen minutes after the first cup, check and check. Yup, fifty-two."

"Big freakin' deal," Roz said, and took a bite of pizza. "Actually I kinda like that one item, about taking forever to get it up. Not too shabby from my point of view."

"Okay, now you're causing shrinkage." He paused. "It is a big freakin' deal when your significant other is thirty-something and should be out with some young guy . . ." He fell silent when she put her finger to his lips.

"I have everything I want right here," she said. "So finish your dinner. Then we can go to bed and fool around."

"Okay," he said meekly, and made her laugh.

Later, as they lay together in delicious exhaustion, she kissed his shoulder. "Nice work for someone on the verge of falling apart."

"I was inspired," Greg said, bringing her close. He slipped a long arm about her waist. "So when do I get introduced to the delights of flannel, oh Cotton Temptress?"

"Hah," Roz said. "One good thing at a time, _amante_." She snuggled in against him and giggled when he groaned.

"If you don't stop rubbing a certain part of your anatomy against a certain part of mine—"

"I can remember someone telling me I could rip up sheets with my bony butt," she teased. Greg's arm gave her a gentle squeeze.

"My mistake." He kissed the top of her head. "Stop squirming, I'm only as good once as I ever was, dammit. You're gonna drive me to using little blue pills, I'll have to borrow Wilson's scrip . . ." He trailed off. Roz put her hand over his.

"You miss him, don't you?" she asked when he didn't go on.

"In the same way you miss the old layout when you move furniture," he said. "It just takes a while to get used to the change. We were . . . around each other for a long time."

Roz knew when to push and when to back off. "Maybe someday you'll tell me about him," she said. She got a grunt in response, but he nuzzled her neck and buried his nose in her hair, something he liked to do for some reason. "'night," she said softly, and brought the covers up a little higher before she closed her eyes and slipped off into sleep, Greg's body solid and warm against hers.

_11 p.m._

Insomnia has decided to follow him to Roz's bed. After an hour of wakefulness he eases out of her embrace and takes his cell phone from the nightstand, then goes down the hall to the living room. Once there he perches on the couch and hits speed dial.

"Hey Mom," he says. "Sorry if I woke you up . . . oh, that's good. How are you? . . . I see . . . who did he refer you to? . . . Yeah, she's good. Gottlieb's better. I'll send you the information tomorrow, have your primary doctor look it over." He takes a breath. "Mom, I . . . I kinda decided about Christmas. Could we skip it this year? . . . Okay . . . okay . . . that's fine. Good. Yeah, I'll call you. You're going to visit someone? That's good . . . okay then. We'll talk again soon . . . I promise. I will. 'night Mom. Love you."

He ends the call and sits there for a moment, torn between gladness at his mother's cheerful acceptance of his request, and guilt at asking her not to come up. Finally he scrubs a hand over his hair and limps back to bed. He slides in with as much stealth as he can muster, bringing Roz's slender body close to his. As he puts his arm around her she says quietly,

"Is your mom coming up?"

"You overheard me?" he asks, surprised.

"I figured it was her because you wouldn't call Sare this late. You were probably hoping to get voicemail, but she was awake because you were gone for a while." Roz rubs his arm. "Will she be here?"

"No," he says. Roz nods.

"Okay. Will you be able to get back to sleep all right?"

"I'll be fine," he says with no truth at all. Roz rolls over to face him.

"Take a sleeping pill," she says quietly. "There's no point in lying awake smacking yourself around for making a perfectly reasonable request."

To his surprise he finds himself taking her advice. This time when he falls asleep, he doesn't wake until the alarm goes off six hours later, and then it is to find someone already up and offering a cup of hot coffee and a kiss, a welcome surprise on a cold overcast morning.

"It's snowing," Roz says. "Can't go anywhere till the plows are out, so let's eeeek!" She squeaks when he pulls her down and administers a thorough kissing.

"Let's enjoy the time off," he says, and she settles in under him, looking smug.

"I was gonna say that," she says, and then for a long time she doesn't say much of anything at all, and neither does he.


	17. Chapter 17

**_(A/N: okay, I will warn you, this is a very intense chapter. There's not much House in it; he'll show up in the next chapter, never fear. This one's mainly about Sarah, and how unresolved problems sometimes come around to get resolved in in a way that cannot be ignored or set aside. -B)  
_**

_December 18__th_

_4:30 p.m._

Sarah ran her card through the reader for the third time, holding onto her patience with an effort. The clerk peered at the display.

"It's still not going through. It's not declined, it's just not reading. The strip's probably messed up."

"Okay," Sarah said, resigned. "Can you take a check?"

"Oh, sure, if it's local and you have ID," the clerk said, rolling her eyes. She tucked a lock of burgundy colored hair behind her ear. Sarah dug her checkbook out and scrabbled around for a pen, aware of growing restiveness and muttered comments in the line behind her.

"Dammit," she said. "Thought I had a pen . . ." She sighed and looked at the clerk. "Can I borrow . . .?"

"Oh yeah, sure." The clerk handed over a large, battered three-sided ballpoint pen securely tethered to the register with a length of twine. It was about two inches too short to reach the checkbook so Sarah leaned over the counter, struggling not to put her knees in the candy display as she filled out the check and showed her ID and tried to hurry the process.

Five minutes later she emerged from the pharmacy with bag in hand, resigned to the blast of cold wind and swirl of flakes hurled at her as she emerged onto the sidewalk. She turned toward the center of the square where the truck was parked, her thoughts already on the evening's work ahead. It would be a busy night at Lou's; only a week to Christmas and the village was crammed with last-minute shoppers. They'd be hard put to keep up with orders, both dine-in and takeout. Still, it was better than being home tonight. Greg and Roz had delivered the tree just as she was leaving. She'd made good her escape without even looking at the thing, so at least she was free and clear for a few hours.

She was so deep in her thoughts that the dark figure removing a bag of groceries from Minnie Lou's cab didn't even register until she was only a few feet away. She came to a sudden halt, surprise giving way to wariness. "Hey," she said, "I think you have the wrong truck," but the thief—for thief he or she was—threw her a startled glance, grabbed the bag and took off down the sidewalk.

"Hey, _wait!_" Sarah shouted. She started after the fugitive, glad she had on her unglamorous snow boots with the thick tread. She blew past startled shoppers, skidded around a corner and caught sight of the thief a couple of yards ahead, struggling over a mound of snow. "It's okay, _wait!_" she yelled, and the kid—she could see it was a kid now, a boy—looked back at her in panic and scrambled over the top of the pile to disappear, scattering apples and potatoes all over the dirty snow. Sarah followed him, floundering as she slipped and nearly went down atop the chunks of ice and crust, but once she'd gained her feet she continued the chase.

They were halfway across the square when everything came to a halt in spectacular fashion. The stoplight had just turned green and traffic was beginning to cross the street when the kid darted into the path of a car, intent on gaining the other side before Sarah caught up with him. For one crystalline, horrifying moment she saw what was about to happen; with everything in her she put on a last desperate burst of speed, rammed into the boy and shoved him forward as her feet went out from under her and she smacked face-first into the asphalt. The last thing she heard was the squeal of brakes and a blare of horns.

When she came to she lay on something flat, and she could smell antiseptic and Phisoderm soap. She started to move her head and pain spiked abruptly. She gasped, but it cleared away the fog enough to tell her where she was—the ER at the medical center.

"Relax, it's okay." The voice was reassuring. "It's Singh. Can you tell me your name?"

"Ch-chocolate. Old joke," she said when she got no response. Her voice was hoarse; her mouth tasted like blood, and she had a nice fat lip started, she could feel it. "Sarah Goldman. Call me Roadkill."

Singh chuckled. "What day is it?"

"Eighteenth. Saturday."

"Very good. Can you follow my finger?"

Her right eye was in the process of swelling shut, but she managed to do as Singh asked. He checked pupil response and nodded. "Okay, that's better than I expected. You have a mild concussion but no internal damage or bleeding. Where are you hurting besides your face?"

"Right shoulder and hip, left hand and wrist," she said. "The boy, is he-"

"He's all right. Dan has him in custody."

"_No!_" She started to sit up and flinched as pain pulsed through her in a hard fast wave.

"Hey hey hey, uh uh. Lie still. We need to send you over for a couple of x-rays." Hands eased her back down. "The kid's not going anywhere. If you're all right you can see him before he's hauled off to Juvy. I'll call Gene."

The last thing she needed was her husband freaking out. "Don't call. I'm okay. No fractures, I can tell. Please let Lou know I'll be late."

"You are _not_ going to work," Singh said. "Gene would peel my hide off in tiny little strips if I didn't call him. You just relax and let the nice nurses take care of you. I'll see you shortly."

They x-rayed her right side and hand and sent her back to the ER bay. At some point someone put a warmed blanket over her and she realized her jacket and boots had been removed; she'd been shivering, chilled without even recognizing it. The blanket felt like heaven, soft and comforting. She slipped in and out of a light doze, waking when Singh came into the room with a small tray of supplies. He set the tray on the adjustable table and sat on a rolling stool next to the bed.

"You were right about no fractures," he said as he gently picked up her left hand to put a splint on her sprained wrist. "I can see how you knew. Plenty of old healed breaks on the x-ray." He tried hard to hide the question in his words. Sarah sighed.

"Long story. Got the films back fast."

Singh accepted her avoidance without comment. "Wirth figures it's worth the cost to be able to develop films in a hurry if need be. You'll be sore as hell over the next couple of days." He examined her facial scrapes and bruises. "I'm going to clean you up a little. It'll hurt, but I'll be as quick as possible."

It wasn't too bad, but by the time he'd put on the antibiotic ointment and a light gauze pad secured with some paper tape, every bruise and scrape was throbbing. "You'll need to stay down and rest. I'd like you to come back in after three days," Singh was saying. "I'm going to call Gene to come pick you up—"

Quite suddenly Sarah discovered she'd reached the end of her rope; she'd had enough. "It's just a couple of scratches and some bruises," she snapped. "It ain't the end of the goddamn world! I'll be _fine!_" She took a breath and gripped Singh's hand, appalled. "God, I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_, Sandesh. I didn't mean that."

"It's okay." He gave her a gentle squeeze. "You're in shock and you're concussed, Sare. I'd like to keep you here for a couple of hours at least under observation."

"I'm all right," she said, and slowly levered herself up. The room spun once, then settled. She was not surprised to find her right eye already swollen completely shut.

"You can't drive," Singh was saying. He sounded worried now. "Gene needs to take you home."

She panicked at the thought. "No, I'm working tonight. Lou's shorthanded as it is." She saw to her surprise that her jeans were shredded just above the knee, but her thermals were intact. She could hide the damage under her apron. "By the time we close I'll be okay."

"Sarah . . ." Singh paused. "Why don't you sit down with the boy for a while, talk to him while he's waiting for the ride over to Juvy."

She did not make the mistake of shaking her head. "Nice try."

"No, for real. I think the kid could use contact with someone who actually cares about him a little." The indignation in his tone caught at her. Sarah thought about it for a minute.

"Okay," she said at last.

"All right. I'll see if Dan will bring him in." He took her pulse, checked the pupil in her good eye, then moved the head of the bed up so she was in a half-sitting position and left. A minute or so later one of the nurses arrived with a doughnut, some orange juice and a med cup. Sarah took one look inside it and refused the medication.

"I'm sorry, it has to be something non-narcotic," she said quietly. "I'm an addict."

The nurse gave her an understanding look, took back the Percocet and returned with ibuprofen. Sarah ate the doughnut, drank the orange juice and popped the pills as Dan came in with the boy.

"Sit," he said, and plunked the kid into a chair. "Take a good look at what you just did."

The boy gave Sarah a half-scared, half-defiant glare. He was younger than she'd thought, maybe twelve or so, way too skinny and gangly, with a mop of unruly brown hair and big dark eyes full of fear and sullen resentment.

"Officer," Sarah said quietly, "could you leave us alone please?"

Dan looked from her to the kid. "Don't try to run," he said, "I'll be right outside," and he left, pulling the privacy curtain shut. The boy's gaze slid longingly to the gap between the curtain and the wall, but he didn't move from the chair.

"What's your name?" Sarah said. The boy stared at her but didn't reply. "Mine's Sarah. I live on the other side of the village."

"You talk funny," he said in an accusatory sort of way, and then closed his mouth tight and huddled in on himself. Sarah knew all too well what that meant.

"I'm not from around here," she said. "Are you hungry?"

He said nothing, but his expression spoke for him. Sarah pressed the call button. When the nurse came in she said "Could you please bring two doughnuts and something to drink?"

Five minutes later two cake doughnuts and more orange juice sat on an adjustable table. The boy made no move toward them, watching Sarah with a wary, frightened glare, like a cornered animal.

"It's okay," she said, keeping her voice calm and confident. "Here, I'll show you." She took part of a doughnut and managed a bite. "Come on, I can't eat all these myself," she said, and pushed the table toward him. He stared at the food with palpable longing. Sarah turned her head away a little, though it hurt like hell. After a few moments she saw him reach, hesitate, then snatch a doughnut. She made no comment, just continued munching, giving him time to wolf down everything on the plate. He took the orange juice finally too, dispatching it in several gulps. When he'd settled back in his chair she said softly, "I'd really like to know your name, if you'll tell me."

He looked at his hands. "Jason . . . ma'am."

"Thanks. You can call me Sarah," she said, and kept her body turned away from his just a little. He relaxed a bit more, shivering in his thin windbreaker. She saw his jeans were two sizes too small and ripped at the knees, his sneaks nearly worn out. "Are you okay? I had to push you really hard. Doctor Singh checked you out?"

"Yes ma'am—Sarah," he said, and burrowed deeper into his clothes as if he were trying to hide. "I'm—I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm . . . I'msorry." He rushed the last two words together.

"It's okay," she said, and that was pretty much the truth—better she should get the worst of it than a young boy obviously being abused by someone. "Did you take the groceries because you're hungry?" He hunkered down farther but didn't answer. "When I was your age I used to dream about all kinds of stuff to eat because there usually wasn't anything in our fridge."

Jason lifted his head a little but said nothing.

"I'd think about big thick pork chops with gravy and grits—"

"What—what are grih-yits?" Jason asked. He spoke with reluctance but also as if he couldn't help himself. Sarah gave him points for that. He was still willing to ask questions; they hadn't beaten all the curiosity out of him, not yet anyway.

"They're a special kind of corn. You eat them with butter and salt and pepper. Mashed potatoes too, and beef stew, roast chicken and apple pie . . . I'd imagine all kinds of good stuff." She kept her body language relaxed, though her face was aching hard now. "Have you had dinner tonight?" Jason gave a quick shake of his head. "You like pizza?" She saw his face light up before he retreated once more behind a closed-off look.

Twenty minutes later, as the boy was plowing through one of Lou's pies with extra cheese and pepperoni, washing it down with a can of pop, Gene came in. He took one look at her and went pale.

"Oh god, _Sarah_ . . ." He sat on the bed and captured her good hand. He glanced over at the boy, who had stopped eating and was watching Gene as if he was a poisonous snake. "What in the hell happened? Singh said there was an accident—what—" His phone rang. He ignored it.

"It's okay," Sarah said. It was getting harder to talk; she was stiffening up. In another hour she wouldn't be able or willing to move any part of her face, she knew from long experience. "Answer it."

"It's Greg," Gene said after a brief, terse conversation. "He's coming in with Roz to pick up the truck." He looked at Jason. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Jason," Sarah said. "Jason, this is my husband, Gene." She caught Gene's eye, warning him to go easy.

"Nice to meet you, Jason," Gene said quietly. It was obvious he wanted to interrogate the kid, but was holding back on Sarah's account. "Are you okay?"

Jason blinked. "Um—yessir," he said, and burped. Sarah smiled and winced.

"Lou makes good pizza," she said. "Jason, I know you have to go with Dan in a little while, but I'd really like to talk with you again. Would you agree to that?"

Jason fidgeted with a pizza crust. "Why are you being so nice? I stole from you."

"It was a misunderstanding. I shouldn't have chased you, it was stupid," Sarah said. "I'm going to tell the judge that at your hearing. I'd have been happy to give those groceries to you." She ignored Gene's dry look. His hand squeezed hers very gently.

"You shouldn't lie about what happened," Jason said. He looked ashamed and embarrassed, but he said it anyway, and in that moment Sarah knew she had to work with him.

"I won't be lying," Sarah said. "Gene, would you give me my jacket?" When he did so, she checked it out. It appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed, just a little dirt from where she'd hit the street. She brushed off the fabric with her good hand and folded it over her arm. "This is what's called a barn coat. It's a good thick one and pretty new. It's not a girly color, and it's really warm." She held it out to Jason. "I'd like you to have it."

He stared at her as if she'd gone crazy. "I can't take your coat!"

"I have plenty more at home," Sarah said. "It's really cold outside and you need to stay warm. Please take it."

Slowly Jason wiped his fingers on a napkin. He looked at her, his dark eyes full of bewildered suspicion.

"It's okay," Sarah said. "No strings attached, no paybacks. I want you to have it."

Jason hesitated. "But then you won't have one."

"I'll borrow a blanket from the hospital," Sarah said. Jason gave her a long, appraising stare. Then he reached out and accepted the coat as if he didn't know what to do with it.

"Why don't you put it on?" Sarah said softly. As he struggled out of his ragged windbreaker she watched him, keeping an eye open for signs she knew all too well. Sure enough, when he pulled his arm free she saw bruises from his wrist up into the sleeve of his tee shirt, some faded, some new. They could not all have been caused by her pushing him into a snowbank. _Dammit_, she thought on a surge of anger, and touched Gene's hand. "Could you get me my purse?"

She gave one business card to Dan when he came in to get the boy. "I'd like to help," she said. "Please call me when he's up for his hearing, I want to be there." She gave another to Jason. "This is my personal number," she showed him the listing for her cell phone. "If you need someone to talk to, if you need anything at all, you call me," she said quietly. "It doesn't matter what time it is, just call. Okay?"

She watched him walk away, bundled into a jacket a size too big but warm and comfortable for all that, Dan's firm hand on his shoulder. When he disappeared she relaxed back into the pillow, exhausted.

"What am I going to do with you?" Gene said, just as Greg came through the door with Roz behind him. He stopped dead, his eyes widening. He looked scared and angry—much the same sort of look Jason had worn, if for a somewhat different reason.

"What the _fuck_!" he said, and his voice filled the room. Sarah flinched hard. "What the hell happened? That kid hurt you? He's wearing your coat!"

"Hey!" Gene said sharply. "Take it easy."

"It's okay," she said. A wave of lightheadedness caught at her. "I gave it to him. I'm fine."

"Yeah, I can see that," Greg said, heavy on the sarcasm. Roz moved around to stand in front of him.

"Why don't you take Sarah's truck back home and we'll meet you there," she said. Greg glared at Roz. He didn't say anything more, just turned around and limped off. Sarah heard the lobby door bang a moment later and started to shake, she couldn't help it.

"It's okay," Roz said. She sat on the other side of the bed, smiling at Sarah. "He's just worried sick and doesn't know how to tell you, that's all. Typical man, stomping around and yelling because he's scared. Why don't you take a nap? When you wake up Singh will let you go home. Just keep your hands under the covers. Trust me, I know all about this place now." She held up her hand and wiggled her shortened little finger. Sarah couldn't help it, she had to laugh even though it hurt. Even Gene smiled a little.

She managed two hours in and out of a restless doze, then submitted to another exam and was pronounced fit to leave. "Stay down for a few days and give yourself a chance to heal," Singh said. "I wrote you a scrip for some kickass ibuprofen and grabbed some samples to tide you over till the pharmacy opens up in the morning. You'll have a headache for the next day or so, that means no reading or watching tv, okay? Let your husband take care of you, it's a rare opportunity for a male to show he's got the chops to be attentive." He grinned at Gene. "Don't disappoint me. Manly honor is at stake here."

Gene tried to give her his coat but she wouldn't take it, so she ended up wrapped in a blanket just as she'd predicted. The ride home seemed endless; every bump and stop had her aching like a rotten tooth. Even worse, the passing car headlights made her relive that last moment before she'd hit the pavement, so that by the time they pulled into the driveway she was on edge and anxious, her insides clenched tight. But somehow she'd forgotten about what was waiting inside the house.

The smell hit her first—a fragrance of fresh pine, sharp and strong. She hesitated on the doorstep, heedless of the wintry blast at her back, unable to move forward. Gene came up behind her.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Sarah jumped when he touched her, and forced herself to go inside.

A big tree stood in the corner by the fireplace. It was magnificent, branches stretching out everywhere. Sarah came to a stop a few feet away. She stared at it, and swallowed on a dry throat. The thing was huge; it seemed to go on forever. She almost reached out to see if it was real, but she was shaking too hard. She'd get in trouble anyway if she touched it . . .

"Are you okay?" Someone put a hand on her shoulder and she pulled away, even though it hurt. "Sarah?"

She took a step back, and another, and another. Slowly she retreated until she bumped against the newel post for the staircase rail. Someone was trying to speak to her but she was cold and tired and aching all over from the beating she'd received, and sooner or later she would have to watch her daddy burn this beautiful thing, destroy it like he did everything and everyone around him . . . She flinched as someone said her name in a loud, demanding voice.

"_Sarah!_ C'mon, snap out of it! Tell me where you are!"

She gripped the staircase rail, hitched the blanket higher so she wouldn't trip over it and felt behind her with her foot for the step.

"I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm at the house," she said, and hated how hesitant and weak her voice sounded. She didn't make the mistake of turning around; if she faced whoever was talking to her then she could see what they were doing, watch to make sure they didn't try a surprise swing at her head or to knock her legs out from under her. She kept backing up, trying to do it as quickly as she could but her hip hurt too much and she had to use her sore wrist and hand to hang onto the rail.

At last she reached the top of the stairs. No one had followed her or seemed to be on this floor so she turned and fled, limping down the hall as fast as she could. Once inside her room she shut the door and leaned her good shoulder against it, listening. She could use the lock but she'd get in bad trouble if she did, it wasn't worth the small respite she'd have before the door was broken down, so she just moved away as quietly as she could and went to the bed. She sat down on the corner and managed to take off her boots, gasping as her sore shoulder and hip pulsed with pain. It would hurt too much to remove her clothes, and anyway if someone came to punish her for looking at the tree, wearing layers would minimize the bruises a little.

The bed was warm and comfortable. She crawled onto it, found a position that didn't hurt too much, and pulled the hospital blanket around her body and over her head. She knew it was just an illusion of safety to do that, but she didn't care. Beneath the soft fabric she could pretend she was safe, and no one would find her. She closed her good eye and lay in the dark, waiting, until overwhelming exhaustion dragged her under at last.

_December 20__th_

_6 a.m._

Roz woke suddenly, aware of something, some sound that had penetrated the layers of sleep. She glanced at Greg but he was out cold finally. She sat up, listening. After a moment she heard it again, a rustling noise coming from the living room.

With care Roz got out of bed, put on Greg's bathrobe and went to the door. She opened it a little and peeked out.

Sarah sat in front of the tree. She'd somehow managed to pull an easy chair over from the group circled in front of the fireplace. Roz slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her, then moved into the living room. She made sure to stay some distance away so that she was clearly within Sarah's sight but not close enough to spook her. When she reached the fireplace she removed the screen, stirred the embers a little, and added some kindling and a couple of logs. Once the fire was going she replaced the screen and sat down on the couch. Sarah was watching her now, her battered face expressionless.

"Hey," Roz said softly. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Sarah said. She sounded tired, and her voice was rough. "It's okay, you can come over. I won't freak out on you."

Roz got up, took an easy chair and half-pushed, half-dragged it over to where Sarah was. She sat down next to her friend.

"Weekends before holidays are hell, huh?" she said. For a moment Sarah didn't reply. Then she gave a sort of low, hoarse chuckle.

"You could say that."

They sat in silence for a while as the room grew warmer and the first grey light of dawn began to filter in. Roz studied Sarah without appearing to do so. Under the bruises and scrapes she looked exhausted, fragile; still, there was something there, some determination or will, that hadn't been in evidence the night she'd come home.

"You were the one who left the pudding and the meds for me?" Sarah asked eventually. Roz nodded.

"The guys wanted to check on you but they were afraid they'd scare you if they came in, so I did it. You were sleeping."

"I wasn't asleep. More like . . . coming to terms." She sat back a little, her shoulders slumped. Roz waited, listening.

"I don't want to be scared of this anymore," Sarah said at last. Her voice was a single thread of sound. "I'm tired of feeling my insides clench up every time Christmas comes around. But the only way to not be afraid is to look at the fear, really look at it, and claim it." She sighed. "I called in some help, but for the next day or so I'm facing this on my own."

"How's it going?" Roz asked softly.

"It hurts," Sarah said simply. Roz held out her hand. After a moment Sarah took it.

"It's just a tree," she said finally. "I can see that now. Just a tree, nothing more."

"What did you see before?"

Sarah was silent for a long time. "Betrayal," she said finally. Roz squeezed her hand and the pressure was returned.

"Would you like some help with a shower?" she asked after a time. Sarah couldn't really smile, but Roz sensed a muted amusement.

"That bad, huh?"

"Not really," Roz said, "but sometimes the world just seems a little more tolerable when you're clean and in fresh clothes. It sure felt that way when you took care of me after the accident. Please allow me to return the favor."

Sarah thought about it. "Okay," she said. Roz got to her feet and helped the other woman up.

"Let's hear it for adventures," she said, and steered them toward the stairs.

**_Hang in there, we will see Sarah find some healing and House will return. _**

**_Many thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day._**


	18. Chapter 18

**_(A/N: as a Yuletide present for my faithful, loyal and generous readers, I'm going to post some extra chapters this week as we head into Christmas. They'll be somewhat shorter than usual, but they will play out more or less in real time, so you'll be following House, Roz and the Goldmans through their holiday. This is my thanks to all of you for following this lengthy, complicated and crazy soap opera for so long, and letting me know what you think of it with such devotion. I'm deeply honored, and very humbly grateful. My readers are the best! _**

**_Now I must admit to a bit of self-indulgence (one among many, to be sure): Sarah's favorite singer is mine too. Check out Shelby's songs at YT or iTunes. She's magnificent, and if you listen to her you'll catch a glimpse of Sarah's private heart, just as House does in this chapter.  
_**

**_A very happy Solstice to all my fellow _pagani_ (hope you got to see the lunar eclipse! a rare chance to welcome back the Light twice), and a Merry and blessed Christmas to everyone as well. Enjoy -B)  
_**

_December 21__st_

_Winter Solstice_

_10:30 a.m._

The music reaches him first before he gets anywhere near the kitchen. A woman is singing sultry and sweet against a bluesy r&b beat. Sarah's singing too, he can hear her, her clear alto bright and strong. "I'm tired of hurtin', this ain't no good anyway . . ."

He knows she treasures Shelby Lynne above all other singers, but it's rare to hear her actually listening on something other than her iPod; it's a private love, intense and personal, because it's music that's close to her heart. Slowly he ventures into the kitchen.

The first thing he notices is the glass of whiskey sitting on the counter next to the bottle. Then he sees a bag of golden raisins, some crystallized ginger, a package of beef suet and various spices, and remembers she'd planned to make mincemeat for cookies and a pie. Working in the kitchen is cheap therapy for her; he's annoyed that she's up and moving around so much too soon, but glad to see her wrapped in her big white apron, gathering ingredients together.

"Hey." Sarah turns to look at him. He still flinches inside when he sees her, the big scrape on her cheek and forehead and the blooms of yellow and green and fading purple all over her face. "Want some coffee?"

"I'll have what you're having," he says, nodding at the whiskey. She glances at it, then back at him. "It's five o'clock somewhere," he adds. She picks up the glass, swirls the contents a little, puts it back down.

"It's for the mincemeat, not me. Come in and sit awhile. You workin' on Christmas?" Her soft drawl is more prominent than usual. Greg leans against the doorjamb and folds his arms.

"So we're not gonna talk about what happened?"

Sarah takes a bowl out of the cupboard under the counter. She's still moving a little slow, a little stiff. "Nothin' to talk about."

"Oh, I see. Suddenly you're Gary Cooper in High Noon."

She measures some flour into the bowl before speaking. "I feel bad that I scared you Saturday night."

"Don't apologize," he snaps, and flinches because he's just yelled at her again.

"I'm not," Sarah says. She turns around, wipes her hands on her apron and levers herself up on a stool very carefully. Once she's settled she picks up the glass of whiskey and takes a sip, then sets it down. She looks at him. "What happened, happened. I just wish you hadn't got stuck in the middle of it."

He shrugs. "Okay. What happened?"

"Some comeuppance for hubris," she says. Greg waits. When nothing else is forthcoming he says

"That's all I get?"

Sarah sighs and looks at her hands. "Healing is not a linear progression, you of all people should know that. Sometimes you find an old wound that's scabbed over but it's full of poison, and you have to clean it out. It's messy and it hurts like hell, and it'll take a long time to heal, so you avoid dealin' with it because you don't want to hurt. But if you don't take care of it, you get sick. You might even lose a part of yourself. I just got reminded of all that."

"And you're trying to convince yourself this is some little scratch you overlooked." Greg shakes his head. "Nope. Not buying it."

"Well then, y'all tell me." She isn't looking at him though, and in a flash of understanding he gets what's really going on.

"Uh uh," he says. "You're not using me as a flog because you broke the mask you wear, the one that makes everyone think you're nothing but a compassionate, self-sacrificing goody two-shoes. I know better and have for a while now." He comes over, takes the glass of whiskey and downs the shot, pours another and puts it by her hand. "You're a lot more interesting than that."

She raises her gaze to his now. Her green-grey eyes are tired, and a little sad. "I'm just Sarah Jane. That's all I ever have been."

"I was right about you back in Mayfield," he says. "You take every hopeless case like me that comes down the road because you have to, it's how you keep your street cred with the whole compassionate self-sacrificing et cetera. You did it literally with that kid who nearly got you killed Saturday night. And you do it because you think you're hopeless too." That last one's a shot across the bow, just to see what he'll get in return.

She looks surprised, but her gaze stays steady, unwavering. "No," she says, in a thoughtful way. "No, I don't think so." A gleam of real affection shades her regard. "Besides, you're a long way from hopeless and always were. That's why I took y'all on, Greg. I knew you'd find a way out. You just needed a little help. You did all the heavy liftin'."

He hadn't expected that; he doesn't know what to say in response. Sarah smiles, and suddenly he sees her, really sees her, in that little lift of her bruised lips. It brings back the memory of the fear surging through him at the sight of her backing away, her one good eye wide with a sort of resigned terror, something he knows those bastards who made her must have seen on a daily basis all through her childhood and youth. He'd been afraid she wouldn't come back from that place; he knows how easy it is to get lost, caught in the endless hall of mirrors that hallucinations and flashbacks can create.

"Hey now," Sarah says. "I'm here." She hops down from the stool with a slight wince and stands in front of him, still a little stiff but moving easier than she did a day or two ago.

"You sure?" He tries to make it a sarcastic question, but doesn't succeed. He really does want to know. He has to know.

Her hand comes to rest on his arm, that feather-light touch he remembers from the day in the yard when she'd brought him ice cream and shared a piece of her real self with him for the first time, trusting him without hesitation. "I'm sure, son."

"Okay," he says finally. She rubs his arm, slow and comforting.

"Thanks for being worried," she says. He doesn't reply, but he knows he doesn't have to—she understands. The moment holds for a couple of breaths. Then he says

"Hitting the sauce is part of your plan, I take it."

"Nope. But it is cook's privilege to taste things," she says, and gives him more of that little smile that's genuine Sarah. "If you want a shot before breakfast it's up to you, but there's some hot oatmeal on the stove. I think that will stick with you a little longer."

"Depends on how much I drink," he says, and is interrupted by another voice.

"A snort before brekkies? Is this some quaint American custom of which no one's apprised me?"

The Brit stands by the dining room table, overnight bag in hand, his head and shoulders liberally coated with snow. Sarah turns a little to face him. She looks scared and overjoyed at the same time. "Prof," she says, so quietly Greg can barely hear her.

Now there's a look of profound shock on Wyatt's face. "_Sarah_," he says. "Good lord . . ." He holds out his arms and envelops her in the gentlest of hugs when she goes to him. "Oh, my dear," he says quietly. Slowly her arms come up to return his embrace, and then she's got her bruised face hidden in his thick coat. The Brit makes soothing noises and gently strokes her back, looking genuinely concerned. It occurs to Greg suddenly that this man is the closest thing to a real father Sarah has ever had or is likely to have, and she needs him to offer the comfort no one else can give, not even Gene. He moves out of the doorway, withdrawing to allow them time together. The last glimpse he has is of snow falling thick and fast past the window while Shelby sings "Your lies won't leave me alone . . . why'd you do me this way, didn't have to be that way . . . hurt me so bad I had to sit down with the sickness . . . I don't know if I belong . . . your lies won't leave me alone."

_Shelby Lynne, 'Leavin', 'Your Lies'_

_**Many thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. **  
_


	19. Chapter 19

****_December 23__rd_

_10 a.m._

Sarah banged on the back door, then opened it and came in, stamping snow from her boots. "Hey y'all!" she called. "It's Sarah Jane!"

"You don't have t'yell," Bob said, coming into the kitchen with paper in hand. He gave her a smile, his blue eyes twinkling. "Sit down and take a load off." He squinted at her. "Y'look a little better, but you shouldn't be walkin' over here yet."

Sarah hung up her coat and hat, put her mittens and hat on the radiator and went to the stove to put the kettle on. "I'm all right."

"You do too much." Bob shooed her away and got a couple of mugs down from the cupboard and put teabags in them. "Them's fresh cookies in the jar."

"Oh, so Marlene stopped by," Sarah teased, taking a sugar cookie from the canister on the counter. "You can't bake worth a darn."

"None of your sass now." Bob sat down at the table and unfolded his paper. "Weatherman says we're in for more snow."

"There's a shocker. It's colder'n a witch's tit in a brass bra out there." At Bob's mock stern look Sarah bit into her cookie. "Well, it's true. What's new?" she said, munching.

"Haymow's half-empty already. That horse is eatin' me out of house and home." He turned a page.

"I'll take him out a little later if that's all right. Anyway, you only got two cuttings this summer," Sarah said. "I'm ridin' him, I'll get some bales from Earl. He's got plenty."

"No you won't, young lady. If you weren't takin' that four-legged bottomless pit out to work off his feed I'd be rollin' him around the yard with a big stick." Bob shot her a look when she snorted. "See that teacher of yours is back."

"He's here to help out. I'm glad he could make it." Sarah perched on a chair gingerly. "You comin' over on Christmas Day? We have a big tree to rig up."

"Do you now. Well, I 'spose I could find time for a visit. Got a present for you anyway, might as well deliver it." Bob turned a page. "Ardy always loved decoratin'. I'll give you some ornaments of hers. She liked you, I think she'd be happy her things got used instead of sittin' in boxes in the attic."

"Oh . . ." Sarah looked down at the last bite of cookie in her hand. "Thanks."

"Most of it's handmade stuff. The woman loved to go crazy with beads and ribbons 'n such. Livin' room was like a warehouse when she was workin' on somethin'." He peered at the paper. "Now look at that. Some fool piled up half a million sunflower seeds in a museum and says its art."

Sarah laughed and popped the piece of cookie in her mouth. "Got a question for you."

Bob looked at her over the top of the paper. "Do tell."

"How'd you like to take on a foster kid?"

"That Bramble boy? Jason?" He thought about it for a minute, frowning a little. "Heard he stole from you."

"He took a bag of groceries," Sarah said, and got up when the kettle whistled. "He's skinny as a split rail, I don't think he's seen a decent meal in quite some time. And he's pretty beat up."

Bob shook his head. "Always knew his dad had a mean streak. I guess since he started drinkin' it's got worse."

"Jason has a hearing coming up next week. He's a good kid," Sarah said quietly. "He apologized for hurting me, and he knows right from wrong." She poured boiling water into the mugs and stirred some sugar into hers, took the milk from the fridge and brought it to the table.

"Why me?" Bob put down the paper as she came over with his mug. "I figured you'd take him on yourself."

"Can't do it," Sarah said. "Takin' him in would be too much."

"You got your hands full with House," Bob said, chuckling. He poured some milk in his tea. "He's worse'n four kids sometimes."

Sarah acknowledged this statement with a smile. "Think about it. You'd have someone to help out, and he'd get a good place to live and a decent human bein' to keep an eye on him." She sat down.

"I'll let you know," Bob said. "Might be kinda nice having a young'un around here again." He folded the paper back and picked up a pencil. "You gonna stay and help out with the crossword before you take that idiot horse out for a jaunt with the sleigh?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Sarah said, and stirred her tea.

_2 p.m._

"Anyone up for a sleigh ride?"

Greg glances at Sarah, distracted from his video game. He's got the afternoon off, he and Singh traded so Greg will be working Christmas Eve and the next day. He doesn't really mind too much, now that Gordon Gordon's here; Sarah's in good hands. Besides, it gets him out of some of the worst parts of what's about to go down, but leaves him able to play the gig at the party, and get his presents and his stocking.

"You're joking," the Brit is saying. He looks delighted. "An honest-to-goodness sleigh? Count me in!"

"Don't let her fool you," Greg says. "She has an ulterior motive."

"And that would be . . . ?" Gordon says.

"She'll need someone to traipse through waist-high snow to hang suet cakes on a nasty little pine tree so a few birds can live a couple of days longer," he says. "Since she can't do it herself."

"Who says I can't?" Sarah shoots him a cool look, which is made less effective by her bruises.

"Now children," the Brit says. "Play nicely." He gives Sarah an appraising stare. "Room for three in your conveyance?"

"Who says I'm going?" Greg says.

"I'm merely asking," Gordon says. "Tetchy today, are we?" He beams at Greg, who hunches his shoulders and looks away to encounter Sarah's steady gaze. She's amused, which is the equivalent of smacking him in the face with a gauntlet. But it's so good to see her back in form, even if she's not quite all the way there yet, he doesn't really care. On a sigh of exasperation he ends the game.

"Fine. Let's get this over with."

Half an hour later they're all bundled up against the cold and snow, ready to head down the lane. Greg sits next to Sarah, while Gordon is perched in the back with the treats. Blackie shakes his head and snorts; the bells on his harness jingle softly. Sarah clicks her tongue.

"Git," she says, and off they go.

It is as quiet on this ride as it was a year ago, and he sees much the same sights—a bird or two flitting among the trees, a red fox at the edge of the deeper woods visible only as a flash of a bushy auburn tail, a squirrel. The snow falls thick and fast, white flakes swirling. Sarah sits on the padded seat, her gloved hands holding the reins with the same ease he noticed last year.

"Lovely," the Brit says quietly from the back. "Though for the life of me I cannot understand how you bear all this snow, it's ridiculously over the top."

"There speaks a man who hasn't made a snowman recently," Sarah says. Greg rolls his eyes, but can't help a brief smile at the memory of his afternoon with the kid and Sarah. "I saw that," Sarah says, and gives him a little humorous glance. She remembers too. He's watched her this year, and it seems to him that while she still dislikes the coming of the cold and the snow, she doesn't fear it the way she did before. She tips her hat up a bit with her finger, a gesture characteristic of her, something he's seen her do a hundred times and for which he mocks her, and is surprised by the surge of affection it creates. To avoid the emotion he says

"Isn't that damn tree around here somewhere?"

"Almost there," she says in her soft drawl. "Just enjoy the ride, son."

"Excellent advice," the Brit says.

"This is way beyond corny," Greg says.

"Well it is bloody old Crimbo, isn't it?" Gordon says wryly. Sarah looks away but she can't hide the giggle bubbling out of her, and then they're all laughing.

"Okay," Sarah says finally, and reins in the horse. "We're here."

The Brit hops out. For a big man he is fairly agile. When he sinks up to his knees in snow Greg can't help a snort of amusement. He gets out, more slowly and with far less flexibility. Gordon is already plowing a path to the jack pine.

"Is this the one?" he calls.

"That's it," Sarah says. "How about having Greg hand over the supplies and I'll come in to put it all up?"

When everything's unloaded, Gordon comes over and plucks Sarah out of the sleigh as if she's a feather. "Hey, I can walk," she says in protest, but the Brit just lifts her in his arms and carries her over to the tree, sets her on her feet gently, and keeps a protective hand on her shoulder. She stays close to his side, even as she turns back and looks at Greg.

"Blackie's fine, he'll wait," she says. "Come and help."

Greg watches them for a moment. Then he moves with care down the path through the snow. When he reaches the pile of food he bends down and picks up a suet cake and hangs it high up, takes another and moves around to the back of the tree.

Soon enough the branches are loaded with food and the ground cleared in places and stacked with salt and mineral blocks as well as more treats. They head back to the sleigh nicely warmed up and wait while Sarah turns Blackie around to head back, then pile in.

"I do hope there's hot cocoa waiting at home," Gordon says as they start on their. "And biscuits."

"Of course," Sarah says. "Can't have all of this without cocoa and cookies."

"And a generous tot of brandy." The Brit pauses. "I understand we have a whole population of gingerbread men to decorate as well."

"Bloody old Crimbo," Greg says under his breath, but he doesn't really mean it. Well, not too much anyway.

_10 p.m._

The band finishes up their rehearsal with 'Please Come Home For Christmas', and it sounds great. Tomorrow is the big night; they'll get in early, set up and play a little to get a feel for the place. They've got an excellent playlist, all the standards, some carols and a sprinkling of non-holiday stuff to round things out—about two hours worth, if they stretch out a break and take their time going from song to song.

"Excellent," Gene says. He's just come in from New York City by the skin of his teeth, avoiding a massive nor'easter destined to dump another round of snow on them all. He appears more relaxed and happier than in a long time though, his lean face creased in a smile that's echoed in his eyes. "This will be a great gig."

They're in the process of packing up when Greg's phone rings. It's Sarah. "We have a visitor," she says. Something in her tone puts him on alert.

"Dammit. My mom?" He sits down, a little surprised to find he's not all that bothered by the idea.

"Nope." Sarah sounds strange—as if she's concerned and yet trying hard not to laugh at the same time. "You'd better get back here."

"Is everything okay?" he demands, afraid of a repeat of Saturday night.

"I'm all right, nothing's wrong. Just—come home as soon as you can."

"What's up?" Gene asks as Greg ends the call and starts putting on his coat.

"Some weird old guy in a red suit showed up with a sackful of presents," Greg says. "If we had kids around I'd say he's a pedophile, but I think he's just lost." He has a good idea of who's arrived, but he keeps his suspicion to himself.

His theory is confirmed when he pulls the ATV around to the front drive and sees the Volvo sitting there, travel-stained with road grime and salt. He follows the track around to the back yard, parks in the sheltered spot next to the door and goes in, stomping snow from his boots. Gene is not far behind him, having come down from the barn on foot. In silence they hang up their coats, go into the kitchen. Greg grabs a beer from the fridge and hands another to Gene, who accepts it and pops the top on the counter. Together they go into the living room.

Wilson is perched on one of the easy chairs. When Greg comes in he stands up. He's still wearing his coat and scarf, his gloves clutched in one hand; it looks like he came straight from work. "House," he says, and there's a wealth of anxiety packed in that one word. Greg takes a long swallow of beer, then moves to his easy chair. Gene follows, taking a seat on the couch, still silent, just watching, as is Sarah. She is standing near the tree, something Greg registers with interest.

"Wilson," he says equably. "It's one hell of a long drive just to say 'Merry Christmas' in person."

"I . . ." Wilson looks down. "I'd like to stay for the weekend," he says. His hands twist the gloves, making them squeak just a little. "I have presents," he adds hastily. Greg gives him an appraising look.

"Are they expensive?" he asks. Wilson glares at him before he returns his gaze to the carpet.

"Yes."

"Did you bring me more than one?"

"_House _. . ." Wilson sighs. "Yes."

Greg takes another taste of beer. "More than two?"

"Dammit—"

"Then I have no problem with you hanging out," Greg says, and gets to his feet. "It's up to Gene and Sarah. If it's okay with them, see you in the morning." He finishes off his beer in one long swallow and belches, sets the empty on the coffee table. "Have to work tomorrow," he says, "early to bed for me," and he limps to his room, closing the door behind him.

**_Next stop-the Christmas Eve bash! Coming your way tomorrow :)_**


	20. Chapter 20

**_(A/N: MAJOR, MAJOR fluff warning. Oh boy, you have no idea yet. But you will. Anyway-if the Flatliners song set seems pretty big for such a new band, I can tell you from long experience that if the musicians are good and have played under a variety of circumstances, they can pick up standards very quickly with one or two runthroughs. As MissBates has pointed out, there's a lot of story running quietly in the background in this fic, so you can take it for granted that the boys have been practicing in the days leading up to Christmas Eve. _**

**_Anyway, I hope you enjoy the party. I had loads of fun coming up with the set list and writing this listening to the music. A very Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! There will be a chapter posted on Christmas as well-you didn't think I would leave you out of House's day, did you? :) -B)  
_**

_Christmas Eve  
_

_8:30 a.m._

"Why is your tree naked?"

Sarah put the last spoonful of coffee grounds in the filter and replaced the basket, then poured the water into the reservoir and started the brew cycle. She wiped her hands and turned to Jim, who stood in the doorway watching her. He'd obviously just gotten up; his dark hair was tousled, his bathrobe thrown on hastily over his sweats. "We just put it up a few days ago. We'll decorate it this afternoon."

"I didn't think you were much for Christmas trees." Jim came in and sat on the stool as she took a plateful of gingerbread cookies out of the oven, put it on the counter and removed the plastic wrap.

"I'm not. Help yourself," she said, and moved to the stove to take the kettle off the boil and pour the hot water over the teabag in her own mug.

"Is that why you look like someone's been beating you with a tire iron, because you had a life or death struggle with that pine in the living room?" Jim glanced at the cookies but didn't take one.

"I caught a kid stealing groceries out of my truck and was dumb enough to chase him on icy streets," Sarah said. "Did a faceplant and ended up looking like roadkill."

To her surprise Jim stood and came over to look at her face. He examined her cheek and forehead and then her splinted wrist, his touch gentle. "Looks like you're healing nicely, but are you experiencing any problems? Double vision, headaches? Hurting anywhere else?"

"No, no and no," she said, and was again surprised when he gave her a careful hug. She put her arms around him, a reluctant but true affection tugging at her. "Thanks," she said. He patted her and moved back, rewarding her with the crooked smile he rarely used, his brown eyes full of real concern, as they had been when he'd first seen her.

"So what happened to the kid?" he asked, resuming his seat. Sarah put a mug in front of him with cream and sugar.

"He's in the local equivalent of Juvy, which is probably better for him than being home since I believe he's being abused," she said. "He has his hearing next week. I've already spoken with the arresting officer and exchanged a couple of emails with the judge. I'm going to advocate Jason be placed in a foster home. Our neighbor across the field might be willing to take him in. That way I can have a hand in getting him some help."

Jim chuckled and took a cookie from the plate. "The kid stole from you and you're practically giving him the shirt off your back," he said. "That's just so you."

"Thanks," Sarah said, and didn't mention her coat. She filled his cup from the carafe. "What are you doing here, Jim?"

His humor faded. He spooned some sugar into his coffee before answering. "I didn't have anywhere else to go." He winced. "That—that came out wrong."

"It's all right," Sarah said. "I understand." She stirred her tea. "Things are that bad?"

"Yes . . . no." He sighed a little. "Yes. Since Sam left, everything's just seemed . . . pointless. All I do is lose people—Amber, House, now her . . ."

"This can be a bad time of year to deal with loss," Sarah said. "I'm glad you felt you could come here, Jim."

"No, you're not. You're just too nice to say anything else," he said, more in resignation than bitterness.

"Now when have I ever been that way with you?" she asked, offering him a smile. He chuckled, a rueful sound.

"True," he said, and bit into his cookie as Gordon came into the kitchen, looking rumpled and half-asleep.

"Oh god," he groaned, "not just one early riser but two. Have you people no sense of shame?" He took a mug from the cupboard, poured some coffee and shuffled back out. Sarah watched him go with fondness.

"Prof never was a morning person," she said, setting her teabag aside and stirring a little sugar into her brew. "Neither is anyone else around here." She tilted her head. "That means you get to help me box up cookies to take into town, if you're agreeable."

Jim spread his hands and gave her a little bow. "At your service."

He did a good job of it; in a fairly short time the boxes were neatly packed and ready to go.

"Let me get dressed and I'll drive you in," Jim said. "Is there any place to shop here?"

"Let's see—you have your choice of the grocery store, the feed store, the pharmacy and the post office," Sarah said, and laughed at his look of utter disbelief. "It's a small town, Jim. There's a WalMart about half an hour away, otherwise you're out of luck."

"Good lord." Jim shook his head. "I guess there's always a first for everything."

"A WalMart virgin!" Sarah patted his shoulder, amused. "Next thing you know you'll trade in your wagon for a truck and put a gun rack in it."

Three hours later Jim pulled up in front of the house. "Another successful expedition completed," he said. He looked a little less anxious now; they'd enjoyed themselves to the point of indulging in double cheeseburgers, fries and fountain Cokes at McDonald's for lunch before they headed home.

"Even if I did make you listen to Brian Setzer on the way back," Sarah teased. "You have to admit, he does the best version of 'Jingle Bells' besides the Flatliners."

"Who?" Jim opened the hatchback and looked at the huge pile of bags. "This is gonna take three trips."

"Gene and Greg's band. They're playing the Christmas party in town tonight. You'll get to hear them, if you want to come down with us." Sarah held out her right hand. "I can take a bag."

"Just go on inside and make me a cup of hot chocolate with a healthy slug of alcohol in it," Jim said. "Did we get wrapping paper? I can't remember if we got wrapping paper."

Sarah laughed. "Yes, we got wrapping paper," she said. "Fine. I'll send an elf out to help."

She found Gordon ensconced on the couch watching 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' with rapt fascination. She found him willing to lend a hand, so she aimed him in the general direction of the front door and went back to the kitchen. Greg was assembling some lunch to take with him to work. "Have fun buying up everything in sight?" he said, and threw more salami on a slice of rye bread.

"Of course," Sarah said. "Everything ready for tonight?"

"Peachy." He sent her a keen look. "How's little Jimmy?"

"Lonely," Sarah said quietly. "Go get the car warmed up, I'll finish this for you."

"Jeez, _Mom_," he said, but he was already moving toward the back door. Sarah stacked several slices of salami atop the half dozen there already, slapped another piece of rye on them, tucked the sandwich in a bag, and put it in the lunchbox along with two bags of chips, an apple, a package of cookies and a bottle of water. She passed Jim on her way; he was loaded down with bags. Gordon was right behind him, similarly laden.

Greg was waiting in Barbarella, the CD player blasting the Moonglows singing 'Hey Santa Claus'. Sarah leaned in when he rolled down the window and gave him the lunchbox. "Drive safe," she said, "rock the joint but save some of that for later, okay?"

"Is Junior coming tonight?" Greg put the box on the seat beside him.

"He might. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me." Greg revved the engine. "Take a nap, you look wiped out." He rolled up the window and roared down the driveway. Sarah watched him, smiling a little.

"Love you too," she said, and went back inside.

_7 p.m._

The band is tuning up and settling in when Greg sees his contingent—_your family,_ a little voice deep inside whispers before he can block it out—come in the door, with Wilson bringing up the rear. He seems a little more relaxed though he doesn't look Greg's way, just follows the others to find a table.

The fire hall has been set up with a dance floor in front of the little stage where the band will play. There's an enormous tree full of twinkling lights off to the right piled with presents for everyone and a buffet on the left, with tables set up on either side of the floor.

"All set," Singh says. "Sound check?"

They play a bit of 'Jingle Bell Rock' and move things around a little, tune up again, then settle in and go over the playlist one more time. They've decided by mutual consensus to keep it all Christmas songs tonight; if they play the New Year's bash, they'll bring their non-holiday lineup in then. Tonight's party officially started at seven, but they'll give everyone a few more minutes to show up. There's a steady stream of people arriving now, chatting and laughing and bringing in cold air, which means they'll have to retune before they play and probably retune throughout the evening if people will be going in and out. Changes in air temperature and humidity wreak havoc on instruments.

At seven fifteen Greg glances at Gene, who nods and looks at Singh. Their drummer counts them off and they launch into 'Run Rudolph Run'. Within seconds there are people on the dance floor. It's a gratifying sight. The hall is pretty live, but with all the bodies filling up the space the sound loses its brashness and mellows out.

When the song ends they get cheers and applause. Gene grabs the mike. "Thank you, thank you very much," he says, flashing a smile. "Welcome to the annual village Christmas party. We're the Flatliners, and we're here to get you on your feet to dance." He nods and they start swinging the intro to 'Let It Snow'. "Let me introduce you to the members of the band. I'm Gene Goldman on vocals and guitar," he pauses as Sarah cheers wildly from the back, generating laughter and applause. "Greg House on keyboard and guitar—"Roz whistles and yells along with Sarah and to his surprise, Wilson. Greg winces but feels a little glow of pride all the same. "Sandesh Singh on percussion and vocals," and the Singh family raises the roof for their guy, "and Jay Lombardi on bass guitar." More cheers and some shouted requests. "We've got a great lineup for you tonight, hope you enjoy it."

They go through all the verses and end with an enthusiastic round of approval from their audience. The place is packed—who knew all these people lived here?—and while some are already parked at tables with plates of food, many more are out on the floor, waiting to dance.

So once Roz comes up to help out by taking the bells, they head into 'Jingle Bell Rock', the extended version they know everyone will like, and the joint is jumping in no time. Greg watches the floor, keeping the beat as the rhythm guitar, listening to Gene having fun hamming it up, watching Roz sway back and forth, shaking the bells. There is a feeling of excitement and innocent joy in the air—everyone is ready and willing to have some fun. Halfway through the song Greg discovers he's among that group enjoying themselves. This is a blast.

They slow it down for 'Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland', an instrumental. Greg sees the Brit take Sarah out on the floor; Wyatt's a good dancer, something that shouldn't surprise him but does. About halfway through Wilson cuts in. Greg glances over at Gene to get his reaction, but the other man looks back at him and gives a slight shrug as if to say _no big deal_. So Greg watches them and sees Wilson say something to make Sarah laugh, and wonders who or what they're talking about.

The next number is a special one. Greg switches the keyboard to piano as Marti Butterman brings Chelsea up on the stage. She's dressed in a red sweater and pretty plaid leggings with brand new boots; there's a sparkly red ribbon in her blonde hair. She hits her mark like a pro, looks at Greg and waits while he plays the intro; he gives her her note and follows as she sings 'Away in a Manger'. Her voice is clear, true and expressive. At the end of the first verse there is utter quiet in the hall. Every note is perfect; she gives the old song a new freshness, a sweet tenderness that suits it and her perfectly. The kid's got chops, Greg knew it the first time he heard her sing. He's already made a suggestion to Marti that she find a teacher for Chelsea to develop her talent, and to his surprise, she's going to do so after the first of the year. He's not used to people taking his observations seriously, but he's glad in this case Marti did so. Her daughter has a gift and it should be developed, nurtured and acknowledged, as is happening right at this moment.

At the end of the final chorus there is a moment of silence, a sign every musician knows means the audience is completely in your hands. Then there is a roar of applause and cheering. Chelsea's dad comes up to put her on his shoulders as Gene says "Miss Chelsea Butterman. She'll be singing a solo in church on Christmas as well, don't miss it."

They retune, then give the hall a great rockin' version of 'Blue Christmas', with Jay doing his best Elvis impression, which isn't too bad. The floor is packed, so they extend the song by a couple of verses, which earns them enthusiastic applause. While they're being cheered, they all take the Hawaiian shirts hanging from the backs of their chairs and put them on. Greg gives them their pitches, Singh counts them off, and they launch into 'Little Saint Nick', a song received so successfully they have to do it again or risk being stampeded. Greg gets to sing the climactic line 'he don't miss no one', and is shocked at the cheers he gets both times. _This is cool, _he thinks, and allows himself a slight smile.

Next up is 'Please Come Home For Christmas'. Gene sings this one with the proper amount of angst so they can rock it with a little blues, schmaltz it up and give it that polish that makes it such a classic. Greg sees Roz dancing with her grandfather and feels a twinge of envy. He'd like to be the one holding her; even if he weren't onstage playing he can't dance because of the damn leg, that's a given, but he can stand in one place and sway, which is about all this song demands. Maybe later, when they get home . . .

The last song in the first set is 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree'. Sarah agreed beforehand to come up and sing. She has on a Santa hat with a glittery bobble on the end and her teal green cable-knit sweater with a gold garland wrapped around it over her rust-brown slacks, her curls rioting over her shoulders. Despite the bruises and scrapes she looks good, and her voice is in fine shape. When the song ends she moves over to Gene, holds a sprig of mistletoe over their heads and gives him a sweet, lingering kiss that calls forth cheers, good-natured hoots and plenty of applause.

"Twenty minute break for the band!" Singh yells, and they all get up to grab some food and something to drink.

"You guys sound great," Roz says when she comes over. "You're a huge hit. I bet you'll get gigs galore off this." She offers him some punch and a plateful of cookies and leans in to kiss him. "I just wish . . ."

"What?" He munches a sugar cookie. "We can dance when we get home, only we'll do ours in the sheets."

She kisses him again. "Can't wait," she says in a breathy little whisper. "Ten minutes."

He crams in all the cookies and a few more besides—the sugar buzz will help him get through the rest of the night. Sarah stops by with Wilson and they praise the band to the skies, though there is a look of disbelief in Wilson's eyes that makes Greg itch to send him packing.

Then the break is over and they're up onstage retuning, checking in with each other. Roz comes around with the felt Santa hats, which they put on with all due gravity. When they start the opening bars of 'Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town' done Springsteen style, the whole place goes crazy. This time Singh gets the solo line, 'better be good for goodness sake' and brings the house down. They don't have a sax player but they've got the next best thing in Gene's lead guitar. They get the audience singing with them, and the old building rings with song and laughter. When Santa comes out (it's Rick Hutch in a terrible fake beard, with two pillows stuffed in the suit to keep it on him, the damn thing's so big you could fit two men in it) he is nearly mobbed as he goes through the room handing out gifts; every kid in the place is jumping up and down, thrilled out of their minds. Greg watches this, remembering his own acrid, joyless childhood Christmases, the years after graduating, after the infarction, when he endured the holidays as friendless and lonely times spent mainly drinking himself into a stupor. His woman blows him a kiss from the back of the room and he's suddenly glad he's here in the heart of what's become his home, for good or ill.

Once Santa's given everyone a gift they finish the song and start 'Feliz Navidad'. While they're playing Greg notices Sarah moving slowly toward them along the buffet side of the room, ostensibly talking to people . . . but she's up to something, he knows she is because he reads her tells pretty well by now.

Once they're done, sure enough, she steps on the stage and turns to Greg. "We have a special request from a young lady who wishes to dance with one of the musicians," she says, her sea-green eyes gleaming with laughter. "Doctor House, your presence is required on the dance floor."

Greg looks around at his bandmates, but there's no help there; they're in on whatever this is, smirking at him like a bunch of morons. Slowly he gets up to rousing applause. Roz is waiting at the foot of the stage. As he descends she takes him by the arm and leads him to the middle of the floor. And then to his complete and utter horror, he hears Sarah play the intro.

"Oh, god_,_" he groans, "you are fucking _kidding_ me."

"Shut up and dance," Roz says, but she's smiling, and her upturned face holds so much happiness he blinks, unbelieving that he's the source.

"Why do birds suddenly appear/every time you are near/just like me, they long to be close to you," Sarah sings, grinning, and Greg vows in his heart he'll get her for this, he'll get all of them, oh, he'll get them _good_. Then he gives himself up to the sweetness of holding his girl close, her cheek to his chest, her slender arms clasping him as if he's something special.

"On the day that you were born the angels got together/and decided to create a dream come true/so they sprinkled moondust in your hair /and golden starlight in your eyes of blue . . ."

There are other couples on the dance floor now, but neither he nor Roz care. He sways with her, eyes closed, taking in every moment. He's never dared to dream of anything like this, ever, and yet it's come true all the same.

When the song's over she kisses him as the people around them clap and cheer. He knows it means they've accepted her as well as his status as her guy, and he knows too that while Roz deserves this after years of ostracism, she really doesn't care now. She did this for him, to show him her feelings in front of everyone. No one's ever done that before. He stands solidly inside the circle of approval for the first time in his life, and looks into his love's face, and knows if nothing else ever happens to him-if he were to die tonight, it would be enough.

As he takes over from Sarah he says "You are so gonna pay for that." She laughs and kisses his cheek.

"Yeah, cheap talk. People are waitin' to dance," she says, and goes over to Gene to kiss him too before she takes the microphone.

"I'm no Judy Garland, but maybe I can do this song justice," she says. Greg can tell she's tired now, getting close to exhausted, but her voice is true and sweet when she sings 'Merry Little Christmas'.

The next tune is the old Moonglows song he's been listening to for the last week or so and the one tune they had to practice hard, 'Hey Santa Claus'. Much to Roz's obvious delight Lou takes her to the center of the floor to jitterbug, so Greg glances at Gene and they really swing it for them. By the end of the song the floor is packed, so they go right into 'Jingle Bells' done rockabilly style.

It's getting late, so they end up the party with a mini-carol sing: 'O Come All Ye Faithful' and 'Joy to the World' and finally, 'Silent Night'. While everyone's rounding up kids and possessions to head for home, they play 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'—and then it's over.

"Man," Singh says, sitting back. "Tough crowd." They all chuckle, and then it's their turn to pack up and head for home.

Roz goes home with Greg on a promise from Lou that he'll be over to have dinner with them on Christmas. "Take good care of my granddaughter," he says to Greg, and offers his hand to shake, smiling. "I'll see you both tomorrow. _Buon Natale._"

"That was the best party we've ever had," Roz says later, when they're lying together basking in afterglow in the soft darkness of his room, cuddled under his comforter. "Thank you for dancing with me."

He brings her a little closer, his hand sliding over her hip. "I have to work tomorrow. I'll miss dinner."

"Sarah's moving it to six instead of four," Roz says. "We all want you to be there, _amante_. It wouldn't be Christmas without you." She kisses him. "Not for me, anyway."

He listens to her falling asleep, her breathing slow and even, and buries his face in the soft, fragrant drift of her hair, content.


	21. Chapter 21

**_(A/N: this is the first part of Christmas Day. I'm hard at work on the second part and will have it posted either a little later this evening (Eastern time) or early tomorrow. Hope you enjoy these glimpses of Christmas at the Goldman house! -B)_**

**PART ONE**

_Christmas Day_

_6 a.m._

Sarah woke on a fading dream of song and sat on the edge of the bed to gather herself. After a few moments she stood, stretched a little and tucked her feet into her slippers. She glanced at her sleeping husband before she put on her bathrobe and went to the fireplace, to shake down embers and lay another log on the fire. Once the blaze had caught she went out into the morning darkness.

Of all the rituals Christmas day brought, this was her favorite: moving through the house she had claimed as her home, bringing light and the tokens of rebirth and renewal to every corner. She renewed the fire in the main room to lay a good bed of embers; this year they would have a Yule log, to be brought in later that morning.

Next came the bread baked at her hearth—two batches of cinnamon rolls. She had just put the pans into the oven to rise when Roz came in, yawning. She went to Sarah and gave her a gentle hug.

"Good morning, Merry Christmas. Could you use some help?" she asked softly. Sarah smiled at her.

"I'd love some help," she said. "Good morning, and Merry Christmas."

They took the stockings out of their hiding place in the mudroom and hung them from the hooks on the mantel, then stacked the boxes of tree decorations ready for use later. Roz put an arm around Sarah's shoulders for a moment.

"Want to try your hand?" she asked. Sarah took a deep breath. With hands that shook only a little she opened the first box and took out a small sphere covered with glittering crystals. She fastened a hook in the loop on the top, then hung it on a branch. Roz patted her back.

"It'll be all right. You'll see," she said. Sarah nodded, and watched as Roz knelt to open another box. She sifted through the contents to bring out a little circle of silk holly leaves wrapped in red ribbon.

"My grandmother made this for me for a school play," she said, and put it on Sarah's head, adjusting it carefully. "You should wear it. It matches your robe." She stepped back, smiling. "Very festive."

Sarah looked down at her old red chenille bathrobe, shabby and faded. "If you say so."

"I do," Roz said. "What next?"

They set out tableware, mugs and plates ready for the buffet breakfast to come, prepared ingredients ahead of time and lit candles.

"I'm off to take a shower and put on something nice," Roz said. "I'll bet we'll have some time before anyone else wakes up." She hesitated, then took a small box out of her bathrobe pocket and held it out to Sarah with a shy smile.

Sarah accepted the gift, removed the wrapping and opened the box. Inside lay a necklace—a tiny real shell held in a gold framework as a pendant on a thin gold chain. "Oh," she said, delighted. "Roz, it's beautiful! Thank you!" She gave the younger woman a hug.

"I'm so glad you like it." Roz beamed at her. "See you back here in just a little while." She departed, a bouncy spring in her step. Sarah watched her go and looked down at the necklace lying curled in her palm. After a moment she put it on, and went upstairs to get dressed.

When she returned to the bedroom it was to find Gene lying on his side, awake. Sarah came into the room, a bit surprised to find him up so early. As she approached she noticed something draped across the foot of the bed.

"Merry Christmas," Gene said. "You look very festive." He gestured at the object. "That's for you."

Sarah lifted it up with both hands. It was a robe of deep forest green silk, giving off a rich gleam in the faint light. "Oh," she said, at a complete loss for words.

"Try it on," Gene said, smiling. Sarah looked at him. With some hesitancy she shucked off her old robe and put on the new one. It was like a cloud, light and soft; it enveloped her in warmth. She smoothed a hand over it, speechless.

"Wear it today," he said. "Green's your color."

She did a slow turn and the silk billowed gently, then settled against her. Sarah laughed, enchanted. "Thank you," she said, and climbed onto the bed to kiss her husband, the most pleasant task of the morning.

_8:30 a.m._

The first thing Greg registers is the absence of Roz. The sheets are cool, so she's been up for a while. Then he smells cinnamon rolls baking and the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, and a smile tugs at his lips. It's Christmas morning, and he will spend it with his—well, might as well say it—his family, his people. For once the thought does not strike him cold with fear.

After a leisurely waking up, he arises and heads off to the bathroom for a shower. On the way he sees the stockings are indeed hung by the chimney with care, and they're all crammed so full they threaten to burst at the seams. The tree is piled with gifts as well; they'll be here all day opening the damn things.

On the way back from his cleanup he meets Sarah. She is clad in a magnificent deep green silk robe with a crown of holly and red ribbon on her head, her curls falling about her shoulders. A delicate gold necklace with a shell limned in gold hangs about her neck; happiness shines from her sea-green eyes.

"Merry Christmas," she says softly. "May I touch you?"

"You don't have to ask," he says—his first gift to her. She looks surprised, and then pleased.

"Thank you," she says, and comes forward to give him a gentle hug. He feels her warmth through the lustrous softness of the robe before she steps back. "First breakfast is ready when you want it."

He flicks the crown of holly on her head with the tip of his finger. "Very pagan."

She grins. "They were here first," she says. "And I am Irish."

"Tree trimming later on," he says, to see what she'll do. She nods.

"I'm ready." She is, too. There's still fear there, but she knows it and is going to move forward anyway. "Will you help?"

He looks off into the distance. "Maybe."

"Okay." She puts a hand on his arm. "Merry Christmas, Greg." With that she gives him a pat, then goes to the CD player to put on some music, humming 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'.

_10:30 a.m._

Gene watched Sarah place the final ornament on the tree. She hung it with care, her touch confident and steady. When she moved back Gene put his arms around her and kissed her cheek.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered. She put her hands over his and sighed softly.

"Thank you," she said, and settled into his embrace, looking at the tree.

_11 a.m._

"Will you open this one before you go to work?"

Roz is sitting at Greg's feet, handing him a package wrapped in bright paper. He accepts it with reluctance. So far he's managed to avoid opening most of his gifts in front of the others, but this one he knows he can't avoid. So he tears open the paper and opens the box, and finds a sweater inside. Not your run of the mill sweater though; this one is deep blue with little flecks of yellow, green and red in the yarn here and there. It's a simple crewneck, plain and soft, something he can wear and not feel like an idiot. His girl has good taste, for which he's really glad, because she'll expect him to put it on and go to work in it, he knows how this works.

"You like it?" she is asking, looking anxious. He nods.

"Thanks."

"Look inside," she says, and now she's smiling. Greg gives her a hard stare, but she just tilts her head. "Go on."

So he picks up the sweater. Something falls out—a piece of butterscotch. On closer inspection it turns out to be a tumbled and polished chunk of calcite. He rubs his thumb over it, pleased at the smooth feel.

"It's a worry stone," Roz says softly. "Just hold it in your hand when you're feeling sad or lonely, and think of me."

Greg puts the stone in his pocket as Roz leans up and kisses him, a lingering salute that has him tingling. They made love this morning when he came back to his room and found her waiting for him in nothing but a Santa hat; he'd like to take her again, but he'll have to bide his time and look forward to later this evening when everyone else will have gone to bed and the house is quiet.

Now she's looking hopeful, so he grabs some present with her name on it and hands it over. She brightens up until she sees it's from Sarah. A little of her light fades, but she opens it anyway and laughs when she finds a pair of stuffed antlers on a headband inside. She puts them on, pushing her thick dark hair aside to reveal a pair of tiny silver Christmas trees dangling from her lobes. He knows when she goes out to her truck later she'll find a box perched on the passenger side seat with a pair of diamond stud earrings inside—good stones, no carbon flaws or inclusions, in gold settings. He smiles a little at the thought and gets a kiss.

"What was that for?" he asks, intrigued. "I didn't give you that monstrosity."

"I know." Roz says it softly. "I just felt like it." _I love you, _is what she's saying, and he knows it.

"I think I left something out in the truck," he says. She pulls back to give him a look. Without another word she gets up and goes outside. Two minutes later she comes back and resumes her seat. The diamonds glitter in her ears, her hair tucked behind her ears to show them off. Her hand finds his and gives it a squeeze. It isn't often she's speechless, but he's managed it. When he goes to work, he's wearing the new sweater and something resembling a look of smug satisfaction.

_2 p.m._

Wilson stretched out on the bed and pulled the thick quilt over him, tired but unable to sleep. Questions kept swirling in his mind.

He'd watched the day's proceedings from his perch on the couch, the stranger at the family gathering. Oh, he'd been included in every event—breakfast, the decoration of the tree, and the gift exchange; he'd even received a sizable pile of goodies, and nothing generic or cliché either. And yet he still felt an emptiness that it seemed nothing could fill.

To make things worse, it looked like House had found everything Wilson had worked so hard to get. He had a home, a place that was more than four walls and a bed to sleep in. He had a family in Gene and Sarah, who treated him like a son of the house, and good friends in the community. And most mysterious of all, he'd apparently found a woman who believed she loved him. Wilson had watched the two of them dancing together the night before, and while House had been embarrassed as hell—any red-blooded male would be, forced to dance to the Carpenters outside of anything except a wedding reception—he'd held Roz like she was the most precious thing in the world. And she had looked at House as if he was the only man on the planet. She had to know by now what an unredeemable jerk he was, and yet there she was in his arms hanging on him . . . Wilson sighed and turned on his side. It had to be a case of willful blindness on the part of everyone here, a pattern he'd seen before when it came to House. What drove him crazy was why. _Why?_ What was so special about him?

He lay in the growing darkness of an early winter evening, trying to puzzle it out, until Gordon Wyatt came to knock on his door.

"Supper's imminent," he said cheerfully. "As soon as Doctor House arrives we'll dig in."

As they descended the stairs together Wilson found the courage to ask "What's your take on all this?"

Wyatt gave him a thoughtful look. "I believe what you're really asking me is how Doctor House has managed to find a full and satisfying life here."

"I—well, I-yes," Wilson said, feeling defeated.

"There are several ways to answer that question, and I must say first that I am not Doctor House's analyst, nor have I consulted with the person who is. But based on my own somewhat limited observations, I would say that he's found what he's looking for because he's learned the difference between perfection and wholeness." Wyatt patted him on the back. "I believe we're having london broil as the main course, and that's something I've never had in London, strangely enough."

_'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,' Annie Lennox_

**TBC! **


	22. Chapter 22

**_(A/N: this is the second part of Christmas Day at the Goldman house. I hope you've enjoyed being a part of the festivities, it's been great fun writing it. _**

**_We will get to see House and Wilson talk; it'll be the main part of chapter 23, which will be posted Monday, December 27th. That will be the last chapter of Harvest, but not the end of the Treatment series. I'll start a new story in this extended fic on Monday, January 3rd. You'll all be included in House's 52nd birthday party in the first chapter. it'll be a fun bash, never fear! -B)_**

**PART TWO_  
_**

_Christmas Day Eve_

_8 p.m._

Supper is finished and everything's put away; the Yule log is burning in the fireplace, a massive, fragrant piece of heartwood from an old apple tree hit by lightning this past summer, and sent over by Annie from her orchard. Stockings have been taken down and emptied, though Greg put his away in his room for later, with a stack of presents waiting too. The best part of that tradition was seeing the shocked surprise on Sarah's face when Gene handed her a stocking stuffed so full of goodies she could barely get them out. Greg contributed to the contents, and it was satisfying to see the effect those silly little bits and pieces had on a grown woman. She went through her swag like a five year old, delighted beyond measure.

Now he's sitting in his favorite easy chair with Roz curled up beside him half-asleep, one of the diamond earrings just visible under her thick curtain of hair, the facets glittering in the firelight. Lou's sitting by the fire with Hellboy on his knee, watching the flames. Gene and the Brit are playing Hot Pursuit, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the tv arguing and having a good time doing so. Sarah and Wilson are in the dining room talking together. Wilson looks earnest, a little sad. Greg can just imagine what he's saying to Sarah. He and Wilson haven't talked much, but he knows it's coming; there's no way the other man will leave without trying to either control what's going on or bend it to his will in some way, it's inevitable.

"He wants what you have." Lou speaks softly so his voice only carries to Greg. Roz stirs and buries her face in his sweater, her breath warming the join of his neck and shoulder. Greg brings her a bit closer and looks at Lou.

"And what would that be?" He wants to hear what Roz's grandfather will say.

"People you love who love you." Lou says it simply, a statement of fact. "He's the kind who tries too hard and gives too much, but never gives himself."

It's an apt summing up. "Words to live by," Greg says. Lou strokes Hellboy's back. The cat stretches, kneads his paws and then settles in once more.

"If you want to be alone," Lou says. "That one will be." He looks away, apparently finished with his self-appointed role as oracle. Greg wants more, however.

"You got all that just from an hour over dinner."

"I saw him last night as well," Lou says. "How long have you known him?"

_Not how 'long have you been friends',_ Greg thinks. "About fifteen years now, more or less."

"Ah," Lou says. "He reminds me of a vintage I found once in Tuscany, not too far from Florence. It was out of a tiny little vineyard, not much more than three or four acres, and the owner was a mean old bastard who hadn't kept up with the times. He made a wine that drove me crazy. I could never decide if I liked it or not because every time I tasted it, it surprised me. Sometimes it was mellow and charming, sometimes it was harsh and abrasive. I kept telling myself I wasn't going to buy it anymore, but I'd end up there every year because I couldn't stand not knowing how that season's harvest would turn out. There was something about it that kept bringing me back."

"Did your granddaughter tell you I like metaphors?" Greg wants to know. Lou gives him a humorous, knowing look.

"She might have mentioned it."

Greg nods. "Thought so. I hate it when someone else illustrates the point better than I do." He rubs Roz's back. "Don't tell me you've got a cellar full of crappy wine."

"The owner died three years ago and the buyer had the vineyard demolished." Lou chucks Hellboy under the chin and smiles when he stretches and then curls up in a tight little ball.

"I get it," Greg says. He glances at Wilson. They'll talk, but not tonight.

_11 p.m._

Sarah stretched out on the couch and watched the fire. She smoothed a loving hand over her new robe and looked up as Gene came to sit with her.

"Who won?" she asked. He stretched out and put an arm around her shoulders, gently drew her close.

"Prof drives a mean stolen vehicle," he said. Sarah slipped an arm about his waist.

"So you're not suited for a life of crime," she said. "I find that reassuring."

They sat together in silence for a while. Then Sarah said, "Do you really think it will still be here tomorrow?"

Gene kissed her temple. "It will be. And the day after, and the day after that too."

Sarah closed her eyes. "Good."

_December 26th_

_1 a.m._

Greg waits until everyone, even Roz, is asleep; then he takes his stuff out to the living room and piles it on the couch before he starts to open everything.

The first present—well, technically the second one—is from Roz. It's a mechanical pencil, an antique that's been restored. He plays with it, fascinated; he hasn't seen one like this for years. The lead advance is located on the side, not the top, and it has a full-sized eraser. Leave it to an electrician with a healthy dose of engineer in her to give him a practical gadget, knowing he'll enjoy it.

Sarah's given him several small gifts—new music, a hand-drawn note redeemable for a romantic dinner she'll cook for him and Roz, and a tee shirt with a logo on it for the Flatliners; Gene got one too, and no doubt so did Singh and Jay. There is also a brass votive holder with little star-shaped cutouts, and a supply of beeswax tea lights; he rolls his eyes at her incurable romanticism, but he's already seeing the holder put to good use in his bedroom. As for his gift to her, she hasn't discovered the new barn coat by the back door yet, but he figures by breakfast she'll be hugging the damn stuffing out of him once more. He's beginning to actually like having her do that which just proves anyone can get used to anything if they put up with it long enough.

Gene's gift is a simple one: a gift certificate for an online music supply store that carries an extended line of guitar strings and accessories, as well as sheet music. Greg will have fun browsing, knowing Gene will be hitting the same site with _his _certificate.

The Brit's given him a cookbook based on molecular gastronomy; he pages through, intrigued. Sarah probably won't welcome a canister of liquid nitrogen in her kitchen, not to mention blowtorches or weird ingredients, but maybe he can use Roz's place for future experiments. Wyatt wasn't hard to buy for; a vintage Noddy Comet tee shirt had been the obvious choice, so he'd hidden a leather-bound journal inside the shirt, along with a fountain pen.

Wilson's presents are left for last. Greg opens the first one, and it's a pair of good leather gloves, something he'll lose within two weeks. The second one is almost guaranteed to be an emotional sucker punch. Sure enough, he's right: it's a framed photograph of Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, Thirteen and Taub standing outside the front entrance to Princeton-Plainsboro. Greg looks at it for a long time. Then he slips it back into the wrapping and places it under the tree. Later on he'll put it in Wilson's car, where it can go back to Princeton with him. It makes him glad he bought the man a box of boob-shaped chocolates.

He's about to dig into his stocking when Roz says softly from his bedroom door, "Greg, you need to come outside and see this with me."

They bundle up and emerge into clear, still cold. The night sky is free of clouds for once, a black velvet ground filled with gleaming diamonds to rival the earrings Roz is still wearing. But descending from the void are curtains of red fire, undulating slowly. They are huge, terrifying and magnificent at the same time. Roz stands with her arms around him, her face upturned to watch.

"_Aurora borealis_," Greg says, impressed.

"Some people say they can hear them," Roz says. "They're a sure sign of deep cold coming."

"We'll manage," he says. She nods.

"Yeah, we will."


	23. Chapter 23

**_(A/N: we have reached the end of Harvest, but not the end of the Treatment series. Next week will bring the start of a new story in the extended fic called Homecoming. Thanks to mmgage for the name! Hope you enjoy this last chapter, and look for chapter one of Homecoming on January 3rd. -B)_**

_December 26__th_

_7 p.m._

"Can I talk with you?"

Wilson is hovering over the back of the easy chair. Greg concentrates on his game, hoping the other man will take the hint though he knows it's not going to happen.

"Come on, House. I'm going back tomorrow and we haven't even said five words to each other."

"I don't have a problem with that," Greg says, and curses when his Grand Am crashes into a wall. He throws the controller down. "I hope you're satisfied. It took me forever to jack that sweet ride."

"Into each life a little tragedy must fall," Wilson says. "Come on, House. I'm not asking for anything you can't give. I'd—I'd just like to catch up with you before I head back to Princeton."

They end up at the dining room table with a pair of cold beers, facing each other. "So talk," Greg says when Wilson is silent.

"How have you been?"

"Bitchin'," Greg says. "We done?"

"House . . ." Wilson sighs. "Why won't you talk to me?"

"Don't see the point," Greg says. "Tell me why you're here and then you can say we had a conversation, if that's what you want."

"I didn't have anywhere else to go," Wilson says. Greg gives him a level stare, ignoring the plea in the words. Wilson doesn't play the pity-me card too often; usually it means he's unsure of his ground, otherwise he'd be leading with accusation instead of a guilt trip.

"Wrong. Cuddy would have taken you in with a little arm-twisting, which means you're here for more than a dinner and some presents."

"Is it so terrible to want to visit some old friends?" Wilson does the whole big brown eyes thing. "We are still friends, aren't we?"

That is the question of the hour. "More to the point," Greg says, "is why you want to know what's going on right now."

"Maybe I'd like to figure out why you don't care," Wilson says. The pleading look is gone, replaced by one of speculation. "I remember calling you the night Sam left. You tricked me into hanging up the phone."

"Bet you think I tricked you into puking in your bed too."

"You never called back to see if I was okay!"

"Jesus, Wilson," Greg says, annoyed now. "You're old enough to take care of yourself."

"I'm well aware of that," Wilson says hotly. "A friend calls anyway, but apparently that's beyond your ability or comprehension!"

Greg watches him, saying nothing. Wilson makes a little gesture, looking away.

"Fine. Glad we got that settled," he says, sounding hurt. "I guess this is some sort of payback for the time I told you we'd never been friends in the first place."

'Yeah, because that's how I roll," Greg says. "Paybacks are my specialty."

"You never let anything go," Wilson says. "You're always the first to demand revenge or retribution or whatever the hell the word of the day is—you've always had a tit-for-tat mentality, and I just know you'll have a field day with that expression so feel free."

"Sure, take all the fun out of things." Greg sits back and takes a long swallow of beer. "I do not seek revenge. I seek justice. There's a difference."

"So that's what this is? Justice?"

"More like me living here, you living in Princeton," Greg says.

"Oh, so distance is your only criteria for friendship." Wilson shakes his head. "That's why God, or in your worldview selective evolution, invented cell phones and email."

"You still haven't answered my question. Why now, specifically?"

"It's _Christmas,_" Wilson says, his tone incredulous. "House—"

"You've spent the holidays alone before," Greg muses. "Happily so, in the case of at least two of your wives. Now your first ex has dumped you again and you're in a tailspin, so you show up here."

"I'm not!" Wilson stands up, agitated. "I—I—I'm moving on!"

"We've already had this conversation," Greg says, eying the bottle in Wilson's hand. "Don't break any windows, I'll never live it down and neither will you."

"I'm not—House, be serious! I'm over Sam!"

"I don't think you've gotten over anything in your life," Greg says. "It's not just losing people, is it? It's losing anything." It's an insight he's never really put into words before.

"That's absolutely rich coming from you! You hang onto every slight, every hurt—"

"Why are you here?" Greg folds his arms. Wilson half-turns away, running a hand through his hair.

"This was a mistake!"

"You're trying to figure it out." The insight hits with that flat certainty he gets with a correct diagnosis, that moment of knowing he's finally got everything put together in just the right way.

"What—figure what out?" Wilson won't look at him.

"You think I've got some sort of magic formula. Put in _x_, you get _y_. No muss, no fuss. A little effort, please the right people, say all the right things, and what you want drops right into your lap. So you came up here to find out what it is and take it back with you, plug it into your life and reap the rewards." Greg feels a surge of anger—no, _indignation,_ dammit. "You're a _moron._"

"You're saying what you're doing is all honesty and courage and opening up to the people around you?" Wilson's tone is scathing. "I'm not buying it. You were born a cynical bastard with a heart two sizes too small." He begins to pace, a sure sign of growing emotional distress. "I knew you before the infarction. You've always been miserable, House. That's never going to change. Your pain won't ever stop no matter what lies you tell yourself."

It's the one thing he still faces sometimes in the small hours of the night when insomnia grips him: the fear that he hasn't really made any progress, that he's actually locked up somewhere in a rubber room and hallucinating this life, this healing and peace of mind. Wilson must see a flicker of doubt in Greg's eyes or expression because he presses his point, aiming his weapon with unerring accuracy.

"It's easy to think you've changed when the people around you are pushing for that kind of kind of view. You and I know better though—"

"That's enough!" Sarah is standing at the head of the table. She looks angry; no, actually she is furious. "Office, both of you. Now." When they both just stare at her she narrows her eyes. "Y'all_ git_," she says in a tone that sends a little chill down Greg's spine. He is reminded suddenly of Cuddy on the rampage only with a lot more amperage, as Roz would say.

When they enter the office the Brit is waiting, sitting in the extra chair. "Double charge for a double shrink?" Greg asks, taking the spot behind his desk. Sarah plunks down the chair she brought with her from the table and pokes up the fire in the woodstove before she takes her seat, easing herself into it with care. She's still sore, Greg examined her that morning and while her bruises are fading, the muscles are in the process of healing; it'll be some time before she's able to sit or stand without being careful.

"Here's how this will work," she says. "You two will talk, and we'll referee. If one of you gets out of hand or tries to pull a fast one, we'll call you on it. Understand?"

"Parents are a drag," Greg says. Sarah shoots him a look very much like the one she just gave Wilson and him at the dining room table.

"Tough titty. You've both earned this by proving neither one of you can play nicely together." She leans back, arms folded. "You may proceed."

"What's the point?" Wilson wants to know. "The second one of us says something you don't like, you'll shut us down. By 'us' I mean me."

"Then we would suggest you pay attention to what you're attempting to iterate," Wyatt says cheerfully. Wilson gives him a glare. "Evil looks will not avail you. I work in a bloody damn kitchen for a living. Now," the Brit flaps a hand at Wilson and Greg, "as Sarah says, have at it."

"I believe you were suggesting Greg hasn't really changed," Sarah says.

"I don't think he has, no," Wilson says, sounding defensive. "I've known him since before the infarction. He was miserable then. He's miserable now, he's just convinced himself he isn't."

"But you still want to know how I'm doing it," Greg shoots back.

"I want to help you," Wilson says.

"Oh, balls! You want to help yourself to everything I've learned. Fine. Here's my exclusive inside knowledge: work with a bunch of clueless idiots on a daily basis, take enough narcotics to send you to the brink of liver failure, kill your best friend's woman, hallucinate like a son of a bitch and spend some time in a nuthouse. Easy peasy."

Wilson stares at him in exasperation. "You didn't kill Amber."

"Bullshit. You don't believe that—"

"Don't tell me what I believe!" Real anger surges through Wilson's tense voice. "I've said it before, I don't believe you killed her. Yeah, you were stupid that night, getting drunk for no good reason—"

"My mother called that morning." Greg hadn't meant to say it, but now it's out. Wilson stops.

"She—_what?_"

"She told me Dad was dying. She . . . she wanted me to come and see him." He feels the pain of that moment, the rage and the bewilderment at the ache deep inside where none should exist. "I refused and we . . . we . . . argued. I left work early and walked into the first bar I came across."

"House . . ." Wilson's self-righteous fury melts away. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"What could I say? 'Hey, my bastard of an old man's gonna kick off in six months, let's go celebrate'?" He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "How would you have reacted to that?"

"I would have gone with you," Wilson says quietly.

"You would have pre-paid a cab to take me home and swanned off with Amber without looking back," Greg snaps. "Don't pretend otherwise."

"I would have jumped at the chance to hear you talk about your family," Wilson says, still quiet. "Friends do that, you know—tell each other things. I've told you about Danny, about my mom and dad dumping the responsibility for him on me, but you've never said anything about your parents, your friends or school or anything else. Whatever I've learned was because you had no choice in letting me find out."

Greg thinks about this. Wilson's got a point. "Bullshit," he says.

"Stop blaming yourself for Amber," Wilson says. "I don't." He pauses. "But I do blame you for giving up and leaving Princeton rather than deal with things."

"Hah," Greg says. "Here it comes."

"You left the best job of your career and everyone who cares about you—"

"Cares?" Greg injects a mocking note. "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

"You'd see it if you didn't push people away!" Wilson glares at him. "You can't blame them, House! All the lies, the manipulation, the endless games—"

"No one in that hospital ever gave two shits about me!" Dimly he's aware his voice has risen. "I distinctly remember puking my guts out in a toilet in rehab while my fellows stood around expecting me to conduct a coherent differential discussion, and not one of them even offered me a wet paper towel to wipe my face!"

"Because they were used to dealing with you in various states of narcotic intoxication—"

"I didn't take the damn pills to get high! I took them to _function!_" He's shouting now, some part of him notes in mild amazement. "I was in pain every damn day, twenty four hours a day! The Vicodin allowed me to work, dammit to fucking hell, how many times do I have to say it! You live with that much pain hanging over your head like a fucking sword of Damocles and tell me you wouldn't do anything, _anything,_ to make it go away! You'd sell your goddamn soul if it meant you wouldn't hurt for five minutes!"

"It was more psychological and emotional than anything else!" Wilson is shouting now too. "You convinced yourself it was worse than it really was, you know you did!"

Greg struggles to his feet. He opens the fastener, unzips his fly and yanks down his jeans, revealing the ugly gully of scar on his right thigh, festooned with electrodes and trailing wires from the TENS unit. "Go ahead and tell me again it's more psychological and emotional than anything else!" He hauls his leg up and drapes it over the desk, knocking a couple of books to the floor. "See that big chunk of missing quadriceps? The muscle they took out because it died after three days of misdiagnosis by a bunch of quacks who aren't fit to pick up a tongue depressor? A whole bundle of nerves went bye-bye too, but apparently my brain hasn't figured that out yet because it keeps telling me those nerves _hurt_. Golly gee, they hurt a lot." He takes his leg down. "It's like having someone drive a razor-sharp ice pick into your leg repeatedly. And that's on a good day. I think under the circumstances a certain amount of obsession in finding a reliable source of pain relief was understandable. Don't you?"

"Cuddy offered you pain management—" Wilson begins.

"She didn't want it managed, she expected me to shut up about it and just do my job like a damn robot, the same thing everyone else wanted! I went to two sessions with the PM guy, he used biofeedback and Lortabs. They could have been chewing gum and baling wire for all the good they did!" Greg knows he should pull up his pants and leave but somehow he can't stop himself. He wants all of them to get a good look at what he sees every damn day, what he'll always see for the rest of his life—the scar that means he is trapped inside a body that has betrayed him, left him unable to do more than limp gracelessly from one place to another, causes him to ache like hell when the weather changes or he pushes himself too hard, forces him into the passive position when he makes love to his woman.

"You never gave any of the therapies a chance," Wilson says. "Then when you got out of Mayfield you ran rather than try to deal with things."

"I knew none of you would admit I'd changed," Greg says. "Especially you."

"Oh come off it! That's such bullshit!" Wilson snaps.

"If that's what you want to believe, fine. I left Princeton because it was time to leave." Greg pulls up his jeans, careful not to dislodge the electrodes. "Going back would have put me in the same place as before."

"I would have helped you if you'd let me."

Greg doesn't look at Wilson as he says, "You were the second biggest reason to get the hell out of Dodge." He zips up his pants and fastens them closed.

"You really think that." Wilson sounds astonished. "That I'm the bad guy." He looks around at Sarah and the Brit. "A little help here?"

"None needed," Wyatt says. Sarah nods her head.

"It's a valid point," she says quietly.

"Gee, how'd I know you'd say that?" Wilson says bitterly.

"You're the enabler," Greg says. "I'm the addict. Not a good combination."

"So that's it—that's why you've pushed me away." Wilson's voice trembles a little now. "I'm no good for you."

Greg nods. "As things stand at the moment, pretty much. It works both ways. I'm not good for you either."

"And so you're going to just—just rusticate in the back of beyond, wiping runny noses and diagnosing hemorrhoids for the rest of your career?"

"Nope." He eases into his chair, still not looking at anyone. "I'm going to open my own Diagnostics clinic here."

Silence falls in the little room. Greg dares to look at Sarah finally and finds she's watching him, smiling. That's whole-hearted approval and support he sees in her eyes, her expression. And she is proud, he can tell—proud of him. Even the Brit is beaming.

"A _clinic? Here?_" Greg knows Wilson is standing there jaw agape, brown eyes wide. "House—that's—that is—that's just _insane!_ Are you _totally_ crazed? Who the hell is gonna come all this way just to see you?"

"Had a guy bring his wife all the way from Cuba to Princeton once," Greg says. "If I build it, they will come."

"Oh great, now you're taking your plans from a fucking fantasy!" Wilson snaps. "How's that an improvement over seeing my dead girlfriend?"

"It's a good movie," Sarah says.

"It's damn crock! It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard! It'll never succeed!"

Greg turns to face Wilson. "That's why I have to do it," he says. "I won't see you in the morning. I'm spending the night at _my_ girlfriend's place." He says the possessive with deliberate emphasis.

"So that's it—that's where we're leaving this." Wilson looks flummoxed. He rubs the back of his neck, his brown eyes blank. "You're never coming back."

"Nope," Greg says, and turns toward the door.

"House . . ." Wilson sighs. "At least take the picture."

Greg says nothing more, just limps out of the room.

"So how the hell was that refereeing?" Wilson turned on Sarah. "You didn't say anything!"

"I didn't need to," Sarah said. She got to her feet and winced a little. "You'll excuse me, I need to talk to Greg before he leaves." She left the office, slipping into the living room. Wilson watched her go, baffled.

"You're wondering how Doctor House could inspire such devotion when you've known her longer," Wyatt said quietly. Wilson took Sarah's seat.

"I'm wondering why no one sees what I see," he said. Wyatt tilted his head, smiling a little.

"Perhaps instead you should be wondering why you're not seeing what everyone else sees," he said.

"Fine. What do you see when you look at House?" Wilson made it a sarcastic question, but the other man took it seriously.

"Someone seeking wholeness," he said.

"And it's really that simple?" Wilson asked when Wyatt fell silent. "He's thrown away his career, his friends, his home for this daydream, and that's improvement?"

"He's found what he needs," Wyatt said. "I sincerely hope someday you'll be ready to do the same, Doctor Wilson. You're a good man, and you deserve far better than settling for the pittance of a life you have now." He stood, patted Wilson's shoulder and left the room, leaving Wilson standing alone, with the only sound the crackle of the fire in the woodstove and the faint hiss of wind-driven snow outside the window.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would make my day.  
_**


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